Things Left Unknown
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: After everything is said and done, Desmond puts himself through bootcamp after being left alone. Perhaps bootcamp was the best thing that had happened.
1. Chapter 1

Boot camp had been hell, but it had also been heaven. As Desmond followed the drill sergeant to the forbidding looking office at the end of the hall, he mused on this. Now that it was over, he was going to be shipped overseas and employed as a Marine—with a capital "M." All the exhaustion and hunger had helped stave off Ezio and Altair, forcing to them to retreat when even the best anti-psych drugs had failed. After "saving the world," he had gone home with Shaun, who was his anchor and had been during the underground escapades, and tried valiantly to court him.

That had ended in disaster. Shaun had "blown a gasket" in his face, telling him he wasn't interested and never had been, and that the only reason he had let him use his body while they were in Monteriggioni was because they couldn't afford to lose him to the crazies. He would go back home to the Americas, but he wasn't stupid: he had nowhere to go. Desmond had smiled and retreated, calling the Order and telling them to pull some strings to get him into boot camp to get him out of their hair. Still, he had pulled through in boot camp, and the final part of graduation would be that afternoon. He was excited.

The sergeant opened the door for him. "In here, private."

"Sir, yes, sir."

He stepped through to be met with Robert Cross, the General of the United States Marine Corp. He gave a smart salute and stood at attention, nervous as fuck.

"At ease, private."

He clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for the shit to hit the ceiling fan as the General flipped through his file.

"Seems you've had a tougher time than most here, private."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Survived the infection, took off your own ring finger without thought, killed without remorse—multiple personalities you used to regularly interact with? One even assaulted…"

He replied with a "Yes, sir," as the man started laughing.

"I never did like that man. Hallucinations? Night terrors? You must have had someone pull some strings for you."

"Yes, sir." He could feel anxiety knot in his stomach.

"And despite all that, you've still turned out to be one of the most promising privates put through. Color me impressed. Have a seat, private. That's what we're here to discuss."

This was not how he thought the General would act. Of course, there had been rumors he had softened up a bit after nearly dying in that horrid infection some six years ago. The man still looked damn good. Desmond sat nervously, thankful that the general at least gave him something good to look at. He was weathered by the years, scarred and covered in wrinkles with a white stripe through his hair. He had taken on Alex Mercer in the infection and survived a deathblow from Mercer's replica. There were rumors he was a god, but Desmond simply wondered if, perhaps, he had a Piece of Eden that hadn't been destroyed when the world was saved. He watched the other men leave, and he squirmed.

"Don't look so nervous, private."

"S-Sir?"

For fuck's sake, he was (almost—almost!) a Marine now, and he was squirming like a little boy in the principal's office.

"I wanted to welcome you to the Blackwatch team Wisemen."

"W-what!" On a quick, second note, he added a, "S-sir?"

The general laughed. "That's right, private. You'll be coming with me to Manhattan, and we'll be tracking down Zeus to ask for his alliance."

There was no denying the Wisemen team was the cream of the crop. Despite how much the Marines hated Blackwatch, the Wisemen team was legendary among the ranks, and all the Marines who were one and the same with their job wanted to be in the Wisemen team—lead by General Cross himself. To think that he was being offered such a position so early in his career was incredible. He wasn't that good.

"I'm particularly interested in how you managed to always pick out the right target and always know exactly where to go."

Desmond blinked. Right: the Eagle Vision—he would just have to speak the truth. He almost felt bad for cheating and using the Vision, but it had "saved his life" (and his buddies' lives) several times. If the General would believe him, that was. He inhaled deeply and told him all about the Eagle Vision, answering all of the General's questions as he pressed, and the more he talked, the more at ease he became until General Cross nodded and leaned back, his fingertips pressed together and a serious look on his face. Desmond fidgeted again and settled in the chair. Perhaps he had said too much. Finally, the General nodded, and he almost sighed in relief as the man dug out a file from the desk and pushed it toward him.

"Read this, and if you have any questions, you report directly to me. When you are done with it, return it to this room, whether or not I'm here. If I'm not, I will have a man to collect it from you. We leave this afternoon."

"And graduation, sir?"

"I'll see you then with your uniform, Desmond."

He startled, surprised by the use of his first name, but stood and saluted, clutching the file close. As he opened the door, he heard General Cross tell him to stop, and he did, saluting.

"All the formalities aren't needed as long as you're in the Wisemen team. We're much more relaxed with each other than the Marines are."

He nodded, adding a "Yes, sir," and a salute, then leaving, slightly unsure as to what to think with General Cross. This certainly wasn't how he expected his graduation night to be. He sat on his bunk and opened the file, looking over everything he was given (when the sergeants saw the file, they left him alone). While the others graduating were out celebrating with their families, he was holed up in the barracks. He had to admit that he was slightly jealous of the others, but he had never had any family. Lucy was too upset for being stabbed, Rebecca was too busy with everything else, and Shaun, well, Shaun had crushed him. He flipped through the file, amazed by what the Wisemen team really was, and he almost laughed at the fact they were no better than Templars—kill whatever stood in the way, so long as their mission was accomplished. And to make it even worse, the assassin-allied president was the one who hired them.

He read well into the afternoon, checking the clock every now and then. When it was time for the finale of graduation, he rose and paced out, giving it one more look-over as he walked back toward the office. He gave it to the man at the door with a salute, then headed out for the end of graduation.

When it was all said and done, Desmond felt proud, despite the fact that there was no family here to see him. He wouldn't have invited his parents if he even knew how to reach them, and the heads of the Order were busy with, well, running the Order. He blinked when a hand wrapped around his shoulders.

"Congratulations, private. I heard you're a part of our team, now."

He looked at the man, who was dressed in a black battle uniform with a tactical vest and combat webbing. He took the package that was pushed into his arms.

"Who are you?"

"Name's Matthew Grier, but you can call me Matt. I'm one of the surviving Wisemen."

He blinked, still not entirely sure what was happening. He hadn't been expecting anyone except maybe General Cross when he was ready to leave.

"I hope you're not this slow out on the battlefield—"

"Cut the boy some slack, Matthew. I've kept an eye on him. He's got no family. Probably wasn't expecting someone like you."

He twisted to see General Cross walking toward him, and he snapped to attention.

"Fucking Marines, man. We're gonna have to break you of these stupid habits, right, sir?"

General Cross laughed. "We will in due time. I think it'll sink in once he realizes just how much power he's got."

Desmond was bewildered, and stumbled when Matt dragged him along. "Let's get you in our uniform, and we'll head off to Manhattan. We've heard about your 'special abilities,' and you'd better damn well believe you're gonna be put to work. We're finally back on the glory path, sir!"

He looked to see the General behind him, shaking his head. "Sometimes I think I let you men get away with too much."

"It's in our creed, sir! Come on, Des—mind if I call you Des? Course not. Anyway, Des, let's get you in uniform and to Manhattan so we can swear you in!"

He was helped into uniform as they buckled all the belts and things in place, and Desmond felt proud of himself—let the Order chuck him to the side now. As they were lifted off in the chopper, disappearing before anyone could find them, Matt reclined in the seat.

"So, tell me about yourself, Des. We heard you used to work for some shady organization the president is affiliated with."

"After I was done, they kinda didn't care about me anymore. I mean, I finished what they wanted, so they don't give a shit about what I do."

"Good, because the president is a real stuffy ass about morality and shit, and we don't have any of that."

"Really?"

"Whatever has to happen to get our mission done, happens. The only ones we watch out for is our team, and even then we'll burn our own to get it done. We're above even the men above the military."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's pretty damn nice."

The rest of the ride was filled with idle chatter, and Desmond found himself growing comfortable with the man as they flew. Being around General Cross still set him on edge, especially when he started flipping through some sort of book that looked as if it were some sort of manual, but he tried not to let it show.

It wasn't until he was standing in a hall of black uniforms and demonic masks that he realized just what he was getting himself into. He felt slightly intimidated by all the black, covered faces around him. Nevertheless, this was his path, and he was mad the Order had just decided to cast him to the wayside, as if he weren't worth his weight, as if he hadn't done anything. He repeated the creed of the Blackwatch, one hand on the case with his weapon in it, engraved with the Blackwatch symbol, as the officer said it line by line.

"When I hunt, I will kill."

He could feel the excitement of the others around, even though he couldn't see their faces. There was no backing out now. He could feel a tingle of utter glee at the base of his spine, and he knew this was the right choice. Ezio had gotten his chance for revenge, and this would be his.

"No one is safe."

And break the first of the three tenets. He could feel Ezio and Altair stir at the renouncement of the Creed, and that giddy feeling was spreading. He was excited—he was free.

"Nothing is sacred."

And nothing is true. He could've sworn he heard several giggles.

"I am the Blackwatch."

The silence was thick and tense. As he reflected briefly upon the creed—his creed—he realized it wasn't a solemn silence. It was an excited silence, crackling with the allure of a foreigner being accepted into this bloody brotherhood. He felt a small shiver of complete freedom run up his spine, and the pleased murmur from the crowd did not go unnoticed.

"I am the last line of defense."

He knew he couldn't back out now, urged by his own desire to shove the Order back for tossing him to the side. The excitement was growing—if the ripple of chatter and the feeling of desire for blood increasing was anything to go by. Finally, he was himself. The Blackwatch would be his freedom, his family, his all.

"I will burn my own to hold the red line; it is the last line to ever hold."

And break the last two tenets of the Creed. There was a soft murmur of approval as he was allowed to take the gun case. He stood at attention as General Cross stepped forward, another member beside him with a knife on a pillow. He set the case down and returned the salute from General Cross.

"Private Desmond Miles," he said, his commanding voice ringing in the packed military base hall.

There was a small buzz of excitement.

"At ease, soldier."

He clasped his hands behind his back, waiting and ready for whatever they would force him to undergo. He could feel the empty spot on his hand, where his ring finger had been lopped off during the worst of his bleeding.

"Are you ready to leave behind your training and previous titles to join the highest and most vicious of orders?"

He straightened slightly, feeling the crack of excitement as they waited for his answer.

"Sir, yes, sir."

There was a small murmur of pleasure from the crowd.

"Are you ready to become one with the Wisemen and fight alongside them until Death takes you?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Are you willing to murder innocents to achieve your objective? Will you slaughter men, women, and children to ensure the general ignorance of our people?"

He could hear Ezio scream at him not to accept and Altair hiss that this went against everything he was taught, and Desmond could feel the mass's energy as he said above the din in his head, "Sir, I was willing the moment I accepted your invitation."

Ezio was screeching, and Altair was snarling viciously, but he focused his attention on General Cross, who was watching for any sign of hesitation. Looking pleased when he saw none, General Cross nodded once.

"Are you willing to accept command of the entire Blackwatch company? Will you accept that the Wisemen team is above all others, and you will sacrifice them to complete our assigned tasks or be sacrificed?"

"I have been born and raised to complete my objectives in a commanding role. If I or another of my kind must die, it will happen, so long as I complete the assigned task."

"Are you ready to leave behind your beliefs, and make the Blackwatch creed your religion with me as your commanding deity?"

"I have been ready to accept this since I joined the Marine Corp. There would be no higher honor."

He could hear Ezio and Altair screaming and yelling, trying valiantly to overtake him and get him out of there. He was getting a vindictive pleasure and an overwhelming feeling of acceptance. This was where he belonged. The Order could shove it, just as they had shoved him. He was prepared to betray the Creed and the Order for his new life, and he would do so without thought. This was his life, just as he had decided before Abstergo had captured him, and he would follow this feeling—this feeling of achievement and excitement, the desire of blood and the primal, destructive aura of the men. If Ezio could extract revenge, this would be his.

He watched as General pulled off his gloves and pressed the blade deep into his left hand. A blood pact—that seemed easy enough. He cut his own hand without preamble, and Ezio was warning him not to do that—that that was permanent, and he grabbed the offered hand with a firm grip, shaking once, twice, three times and feeling the blood mix between their palms as he met General Cross's gaze, the smirk on his face an encouraging sign for him. As they let go, Desmond clasped his hands behind his back, Ezio and Altair suddenly quiet as General Cross gestured.

"Desmond Miles, turn to face your family."

He did as he was ordered, feeling his blood well and drip onto the floor of the hall.

"Blackwatch—Wisemen—you have heard his answers. Will you accept him as your flesh and blood, and take from him what you need?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

He inhaled deeply, feeling the aura shift into something more animalistic, the dripping of his blood and Cross's ringing through the hall loud and clear.

"Will you witness when called upon and help him grow among our ranks?"

His eyes grew wide with unadulterated excitement and bloodlust—not so different from Altair's when the gaping throat of an enemy would spill its precious contents into the hungry desert soil. He watched as they crowded forward, eager to reach the foreigner and indoctrinate him into them, to become one of them in mind, body, and spirit. This was the Order to which he belonged—this was going to be the culmination of all his skills learned in the Animus, hours spent going crazy without Shaun to tether him, and pain inflicted upon him for nothing.

He was pulled into the mob and into a different room, masks being shed and the entire night passing in a blur of bartending and meeting the others. Voices drifted in and out, all trying to impress upon the foreigner and learn about the new man, and Desmond had never felt so alive as that night.

He woke the next morning in his bunk, significantly better than any other bed he had slept in, his hand bandaged and the bugles waking the other Marines at the base. He rose, slipping out of bed and still reveling in the welcome from last night. He picked up the helmet, looking at it closely and smiling, satisfied with his decision. He grabbed the gun (an M4 Carbine) walked out of the room as he looked closely at the headgear, and he looked when he heard someone come up behind him. He saluted when he realized it was General Cross, and relaxed when he waved at him dismissively, strolling alongside him.

"I figured you'd be up, Miles."

"Still not used to this schedule, sir."

"Why don't you come have breakfast with me."

"Yes, sir."

They paced silently to the mess hall, the Marines giving them dirty looks as they sat at a table with their food.

"How late do the others often sleep in till, sir?"

"Another hour or so." General Cross looked at him as they dug in. "All we can do is patrol and interrogate until we find Mercer."

Desmond pursed his lips.

"But, with your talents, hopefully it'll go faster, now."

"Are you sure, sir? I can't see through buildings, General."

"I know, but you can see through disguises."

He couldn't argue with that. They ate in relative silence, watching as the Wisemen came stumbling in an hour later, eating quickly and heading outside. He followed the General outside to a small plot of grass where the other six Wisemen were sitting. He sat, flicking on the Eagle Vision out of curiosity and looking at all the blue figures walking around. He had never seen so many in one place.

He noticed, walking in and among the dozens of men, a gold figure, flicking through the blue, and he tilted his head. The man would push a little closer, then back off a bit when he realized Desmond was staring at him. It probably didn't help he didn't have his helmet on yet. But then again, neither did the others.

"Sir, I think newbie's spotted something with that special ability you told us about."

Desmond didn't register the comment, blinking as he watched the figure start to walk off.

"What do you see, Miles?"

Desmond blinked. "Him." He pointed to the figure retreating. "He's… not blue. He's gold. There's something wrong with him."

He rose when the figure caught him pointing. Cross made a single gesture, and the team took off running. Desmond joined in, curious as to who the hell that figure was, thinking maybe it was Alex, and he easily took the lead, his years of running and parkouring making it easier for him to keep up. Eventually, it was just him and the figure, the others having fallen behind when the soldier made a sharp turn, and Desmond thought he had disappeared as he looked, flicking on the Eagle Vision only to him gone. Cross came behind him, looking around as Desmond peeking into the streets and looked both ways, hoping for a glimpse of gold.

The other Wisemen came trotting up behind, laughing and joking as they put on their helmets. One of them pulled Desmond's over his head, and he jumped as the helmet came down. He heard Cross laugh.

"I told you, men, this is going to get easier and easier now that he's on our team. All right, you know the drill—anything suspicious, stop and interrogate. I'll introduce newbie here to our interrogation methods, if needed, and we'll start rotating him out with the teams."

He watched Cross jerk his head to follow him, and he followed closely. As the teams dispersed, there was an uneasy feeling in the back of his head as if he were being watched. He looked up, flicking on his Eagle Vision again, and through the lenses, he could see a small ball of gold watching him, and, without warning, he turned and fired, laughing when the bullet struck his target. He could see the golden figure running off, and he took off with a grunt, listening to the people panic as he chased after it, Cross running close behind.

"Where is he, Miles?"

"On the roof tops! Heading toward Central Park!"

He could hear the radio crackle behind him as he looked back up to the sky, watching that gold form leap as General Cross requested backup. He shoved people out of the way lining up to aim as Alex prepared to jump into the park. He fired a short burst, and he heard Cross a second later, striking Alex as he went to recover from the gunfire. He fired shortly after the second one hit, and soon enough, the gold figure was falling into the Park.

Desmond raced after him, leaping over hill and dale to catch him, but the man was on his feet and sped up even more. Eventually, Cross grabbed his shoulder.

"Leave it to the Strike Team, kid. We'll never catch him once he picks up his feet and moves."

Desmond looked at him, then back toward the gold figure being attacked by the helicopters.

"You've all ready made more progress than we have since 2009."

Desmond shook his head. "Yeah, but, I guess it was more like I was attacking him. That's not gonna make him want to join."

"He won't join unless we can best him."

He looked toward Cross when he wrapped an arm around his shoulder, choosing a much more leisurely stroll through the park.

"But that will take forever," Desmond murmured.

"Don't worry, Miles. We've got plenty of time. It's the—"

"Chase that makes it all exciting. Yeah," Desmond said, smiling as he took the helmet off briefly. "I know. I know that well."

They walked around the city without much success after that, and Desmond was pacing furiously back at the base. There had to be a way to lure the man out.

"If you think too hard, you'll burst a vessel. May as well relax. We aren't getting anywhere in this case as long as we're stuck on base," Jarrod McCutchan said, leaning back with his cards in his hands. "I miss the days of the Infection."

They were playing poker or something as they waited for morning. There had to be something he was overlooking—something he was missing—something from the Infection, which he had lived through. He remembered the military bases, hiding out in the basements of buildings, skirting from place to place, seeing the fight in Times Square, returning back to his home after the hive had gone.

His home.

Next to a hospital morgue.

Where he had seen Alex enter.

"That's it," he murmured. "The morgue."

"What are you mumbling about?"

He turned, wondering briefly why he still had his mask on, and gestured. "When the Infection was here, all those years ago, I lived next to a hospital morgue."

"Okay? Look, newb, we've tried that several times all ready, but we couldn't find anyone we could get to spill," another of the six said. General Cross was staring out the window.

"There's information in that morgue. Someone who Alex trusts enough to return to night after night. I saw it. We could find Dana using that information, barter her life to talk to Alex, and—"

"It won't help. He'll crush us like every other time."

He was silent for a moment, then his lips curled upward. "Not if only one of us knows where she is, and he stays with her in an undisclosed location of the kidnapper's choice."

"What are you talking about?" Matt said, throwing his hand down. "Straight flush."

"Think about it: I've had plenty of practice with shit like this, and if I kidnapped her, took her to some place I know about, someplace where he couldn't reach me, and I radioed in to you, and you let Alex know that you could set her free, but I had her holed up somewhere you didn't know, he wouldn't be able to touch us until you talked to him."

"There's just one problem with that, Miles," General Cross said, turning to give him a serious look.

"Yeah, sir?"

"We don't know where Dana is."

"The girl is a fucking wraith. She seems to disappear every time we get close. We think she's got allies," Trevor Raymond, another of the six Wisemen, hissed.

"Allies?"

"Yeah. Sneaky ones, too. They never seem to appear. We think we caught one a while back—"

"But the fucker refused to break, calling us Templars and bastards, and—"

"Templars?" Desmond nearly shouted. This was a game he could play.

"Y-yeah?"

He laughed bitterly. "Fuck it all, this is going to be easy. Where's the nearest pay phone?"

"What?"

"Dude, I used to be a part of the order you're talking about. I have their numbers memorized. I was supposed to call them, but my phone got lost, and they've probably gotten someone else." He smirked. "Wait until I tell them I'm in the Wisemen. I can get Dana's number, address, blood type, and favorite color from them."

"Are you certain?"

"They think I'm still loyal, sir. Perhaps a little crazy, but loyal, since I 'have no family' outside of them."

He watched General Cross smirk. "Perhaps you are just the right tool to get this done."

Desmond shifted his weight as he checked around for anyone again, and pushed in the coins for the pay phone. He punched in the number, shifting anxiously, again. When he heard someone pick up, and silence on the other end, he spoke.

"Hello? It's Desmond Miles calling. I lost the phone you gave me after it was taken at the beginning of boot camp, and I still haven't received it back, because I left before they could give it to me since I didn't have family there."

"Why haven't you attempted to contact us earlier?"

"I graduated from boot camp just two days ago. I haven't had any time between initiation and learning the ropes of the Blackwatch Wisemen team."

"How were you chosen for Blackwatch? We've been keeping an eye on them before that. Why were you accepted?"

"I don't know, sirs, but I think it has to do with all the training I had before, and the Eagle Vision. General Cross was impressed with the fact that I always knew where to go and what my target was, which I used the Eagle Vision to know, and my strength and capacity to kill without thought sealed the deal."

There was silence for a moment, and Desmond shifted anxiously, looking around again and finding General Cross waiting a few meters away, just in case things went to hell. Eventually, a different voice came back over, and he realized he was on speaker.

"All right, we'll accept that."

"I need an assassin contact I can meet when we go out. The Wisemen are really bored with their current mission, and they go barhopping and patrolling the city, or goof off, interacting with someone wouldn't be out of the ordinary. I heard there's someone named Dana Mercer around here, and they think she's an assassin... is she? Could I get her address and number?"

"Yes, she's a new addition to the Order. Do you have something to write on?"

He pulled a pen from his jacket and scribbled all over his hand briefly. "Yeah, fire away."

He took down the address and number and nodded once. "Thanks, sirs."

"We'll contact Dana and tell her you're coming."

"If you don't mind, sirs, give me a few more days to solidify my relationship with the Wisemen. Maybe two or three days."

"We'll tell her to expect you."

"And, uh, one more thing…"

"Yes?"

"Tell her to keep Alex away. He might eat me before I could talk to her. He doesn't like Blackwatch… at all."

There was silence, then a small murmur of agreement. "All right. Good bye."

"Good night!"

He hung up and breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the phone. He heard General Cross pace over. "How'd it go, Miles?"

He smiled wearily, holding up his hand. "I got it, sir."

General Cross gripped his wrist, then smirked as he looked over the writing. "Good job, Miles. We're finally on the road to victory."

He chuckled. "Thanks, sir, but I have one more request."

"And that is?"

"I need a submarine to hold Dana in. One to store food for several days, and maybe even to travel along the coast."

General Cross wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him back toward base. "We can do that easy."

"Great, sir. Thanks."

"Things have gotten easier with you around."

"So you've said, sir."

They both chuckled and fell silent as they walked back toward base, the military men and the city buzzing around him.

"Where were you born, Miles?"

"Why, sir?"

"All it said was that you were born on a Farm."

"Oh… I was born somewhere in Arizona, I think. I ran away at sixteen, so I don't really remember much."

"Arizona?" General Cross sounded surprised, turning to look at him. "I gotta kid down there somewhere."

"No way." Desmond scoffed. "You have kids? I thought you had your work, and that was it."

General Cross nodded and made a gesture with the flip of his hand. "Some sort of sperm donation thing. The president wanted my genes passed along and said I was a prime example of what they wanted in those people. Never questioned it."

Desmond raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Some couple he was watching couldn't have children. I was leaping ranks back then. I figure the kid's gotta be at least twenty-seven."

"I probably knew him. They kept kids together, what few there were."

"You are twenty-seven, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Was it really a farm in Arizona?"

"More or less, sir. It wasn't so much as a crop and animal farm, but a human farm for the order I used to work for."

"Elaborate."

He told him the entire story, from running away to rejoining, and by the time he was done, they were back at base.

"I thought you could request information about that, sir," he ended with.

"I've done everything I could think of, but the president refused to give it to me. Makes sense, if it's a part of the order you described."

Desmond nodded once.

"Do you remember any of the kids down there?"

He thought about it while General Cross called in for a submarine. After the General hung up, Desmond frowned.

"Sorry sir, I don't. At least, not any who looked like you."

"Damn," General Cross hissed. "It would've been fun to know who my kid was."

"Sorry, sir," he said as he shook his head.

General Cross shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'll look into it more while this operation is going on. Off to bed, Miles. It's past your bedtime."

Desmond snorted as he rose. "Whatever you say, General."

The man chuckled. "I'll see you bright and early for breakfast."

"Sir, yes, sir!" he said with a sharp salute, and grinned like an idiot as he walked out.

He thought that maybe he could handle this new life with a family like the Blackwatch. As he lay down and closed his eyes, he could almost see Ezio's frowning face, and he couldn't help but smile.

Two days later, a submarine came cruising into the base, and Desmond was nearly giddy with excitement. The other Wisemen laughed, telling him he should've been there during the real Infection, when they weren't stuck doing menial jobs, and were earning their pay and loving the hell out of it. Desmond wondered just what it was like for the Blackwatch during that time, if it really was as crazy as they told him, and if it really was as crazy as they said. He didn't understand it fully, but they had compared it to "a human hunting ground" and a "feast for the eyes." He wondered if he'd get there eventually. Ezio vehemently denied that that would happen, and that he was better—leagues above—all the other Wisemen, but Altair was a bit more cynical and a little bit more excited. Figures the bloodthirsty ancestor would approve.

Cross came strolling to them, looking like a cat who got the cream, as they gathered outside on a small splotch of grass for that day. They were all excited, and all were waiting for the operation to get under way.

* * *

><p><strong>Continue? I mean: I can't post it on the [P] kinkmeme... it's, like, dead. *sobs and mourns* And I haven't heard a response on the king meme...<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

"All right. We get Dana tonight. Desmond'll go plain clothes to her apartment and lure her out to bring her to the sub. Michael, Seth, and Matt, you'll come with me and we'll camp out in Dana's apartment for Alex's return. Kenneth and Trevor? You two make sure Desmond has everything he needs. Once you're done checking the supplies, Jarrod and the driver will load them. You're also in charge of waiting for Desmond, Jarrod, just to make sure he doesn't have trouble with her. Lord knows she's given us enough."

There was a murmur of approval as General Cross fished out headsets and radios. After they were all taught how to clip them on, the General looked at Desmond.

"And, Desmond, I expect you to kill whoever gets in the way."

Desmond nodded, flinching at Ezio's and Altair's screeches.

"Is that a sign of weakness?"

"No, sir," Desmond said, perhaps a tad bit louder than it should've been, but he was trying to hear himself above the din of his ancestors, "it's a sign that the voices in my head are protesting."

"Will that be a problem?"

"No, sir," he hissed, sticking his finger in his ear.

Altair and Ezio were pitching a tantrum about killing innocents. They would've done nothing but be there at the wrong place at the wrong time, and they didn't need to die. It broke the first tenet of the creed—their creed, Desmond reminded himself, narrowing his eyes as he shook his head and commanded them to silent.

He was no longer a part of that order. His Order was the Blackwatch.

As nighttime rolled around, Desmond pulled on his familiar hoodie and jeans. He had the battle suit on underneath, and most of the gear on under his hoodie. His weapons and ammunition were back on the sub, all save the M4 Carbine, which was specially packed into a backpack. It was a snug fit with everything on underneath, but he wasn't going to risk not wearing the armor. He slid through the night, his hood up, until he reached Dana's complex. He walked up to the door, tugged his hood down more, and knocked.

"Coming!" A few seconds later, the door opened. "What's up?"

He looked up and jumped, stepping back a few paces. "R-Rebecca?"

She blinked, and he reached out as she laughed and grabbed his hand before he could touch her face. "You must be Desmond. Come on in!"

He followed her in slowly and looked around the darkened apartment. She had walked off into a tiny kitchen as was rifling through the fridge.

"So, you really made Blackwatch, huh?"

He offered a small smile as she returned with a carton of vanilla ice cream and a spoon, itching her leg with her socked foot. He sat uneasily on the couch, Ezio hissing at him that he shouldn't go through with this and that this shit was permanent, and he would be branded a traitor. Of course, he had also been branded a traitor when he ran all those years ago. With a roll of his head to crack his neck and a shrug of his shoulders, he relaxed a little bit more. He could do this. He was Blackwatch. He was Wisemen.

"Do you want to go for a walk outside?" he murmured. "It's still pretty out. And we could go to the docks to talk. They're usually secluded—and if they aren't, I can make them secluded."

"Are you sure that's wise? I mean: we're supposed to keep on the DL."

He smiled softly at her. "It doesn't matter. All they'll see is two kids out to have fun on a beautiful night, and if they think they see something else?" He adjusted his backpack. "I'll blow them to smithereens."

Dana laughed. "Sure. Lemme get some flip-flops on. I told Alex not to come near me since I'm meeting with you, and there's a high probability we'll meet one of your buddies."

His lips formed a thin line. "Yeah. There is, but the more I stay inside, the easier it gets to hear Ezio and Altair, and I really need to stay busy to keep them from coming back."

"I bet!" she said, the spoon dangling from her lips as she pushed her sock-covered feet into flip-flops. Her jeans and tight t-shirt looked great on her. "All right, let's go."

He stood, eager to be out of the apartment building. They walked in silence out of the building, and he could feel his team members slip into the building like ghosts, ready to spring into action the moment she was down. She was spooning the ice cream out of the carton, and most of it had been eaten previously, he surmised at the almost empty container. He looked around at all the life and lights, feeling something akin to what someone once described to him as peace.

"Want some?"

He turned to see a spoon full of ice cream offered toward him. Without thinking, he leaned over and wrapped his lips around it, pulling it off. He couldn't even remember the last time he had had ice cream. Dana was smirking. He quirked an eyebrow.

"And now that we've kissed…"

"Wha?" he said around the frozen dessert.

She laughed. "You know, 'swap spit,' kissing?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, you'd be the first kiss I could remember."

She made a face. "Really?"

"Yeah. All that shit the assassins put me through? I wasn't even myself for most of it. You ask me where I was two years ago, and I'll say Masyaf or Jerusalem—even Italy."

"Really?"

He nodded, looking back around at the life trickling out as they approached the pier where the submarine would meet them. He sighed. "Bootcamp was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"That's sad, man. Don't you have a lover or something?"

He shook his head, looking around the corner to find a group of druggies. He walked to the edge of the water, hidden from public behind the building. They stared at him as he gestured. "Pack your shit. We're here, now."

When they refused, he pulled his baby out of the backpack. "Leave, idiots."

"Just kill them, Desmond," Jarrod's voice cracked over the radio in his ear. "Right, General?"

"Go for it, kid," came Cross's reply.

He didn't even bat an eye as he open-fired on them. When he was satisfied the five of them were dead, he turned to look at Dana, who was wide-eyed. He aimed at her. Ezio and Altair were screaming and pounding at the front of his skull. He had just murdered his first bunch of innocents, and he couldn't find it in himself to feel bad at all—only annoyed that his ancestors were raising such a ruckus. Sure, perhaps a little bit of remorse, but the reminder they were, in fact, going to die of a drug overdose anyway quickly squashed it. "Hands up. You're being taken in."

The spoon clattered to the ground, and her eyes narrowed. Slowly, her hands rose.

"If you even think about making one call for help, I'll knock you out."

He saw the submarine come to pick them up, and Jarrod left to talk to the submarine opeartor, his mask on as he cuffed Dana and forced her into the ship. He picked up the ice cream and spoon, brushed it off, and hopped in. They were led through the maze of halls and tiny rooms until they reached their designated area. The military was humming with life around them. Dana looked pissed.

"So you're a traitor now?"

"Something along those lines," he said as he scooped out some ice cream and ate it. "Not that I can really help it."

"Not that you can help it? Bull fucking shit."

He smirked as Jarrod moved up to the submarine operator, and he could feel them moving down. He pulled off his hoodie and jeans, now back in his uniform as he strapped his weapons onto him.

"It's what they deserve. See this?" He wiggled his left hand, emphasizing the missing ring finger. "After I 'saved the world' and all that mumbo-jumbo, they sent me home with Shaun."

"What does that—"

"After Shaun made it clear he didn't want to be around me, I volunteered to leave. But you wanna know what was wrong with that?"

She hissed. "What?"

"I wasn't sane. I wasn't living in Parris Island. I was living in Syria. I was living in the streets of Renaissance Italy. I was beating my head against brick walls at bootcamp and slicing my own finger off while trying to assassinate anyone who didn't believe I was the Grand Master Assassin. The order didn't give a shit about me, so I'm doing what I want. The Wisemen have given me a family where there has never been one, and for once? I feel like I'm cared about. It's a nice feeling, you know? I feel like I belong. I don't feel like I'm 'just a tool.'"

Dana was silent, her eyes betraying her as somewhere between appalled, sympathetic, and angry.

"And now, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to stay in the Wisemen, because they treat me like I'm actually worth something."

He plopped down, eating another bite of the ice cream.

"And I don't care if it means murdering civilians. I don't care if it means sacrificing myself. At least my life will have been worth something then. This is the best life I've ever had. I would never repeat my past. I have a big bed; I have people who genuinely like me; I have purpose, and I have something to care for. The assassins' order took all that from me."

He offered her out a bite, and she took it warily.

"So you may as well get comfortable, because we're in here for the long haul until your brother agrees to join the military."

She scoffed around the sweet treat, settling back. Desmond, for once, felt powerful. He felt in charge. He leaned his head against the wall of the submarine and closed his eyes. He knew he could overpower everyone in here if he needed to. He had the speed and finesse of an assassin, and the strength and brutality of a military man. He liked the feeling settling into his gut as he lapsed into silence, polishing off the ice cream before murmuring again.

"That was the first time I've had a treat like that in… some three years."

"Yeah, well, you certainly don't deserve one for murdering those innocents."

He felt a smile pull at the corner of his lips. He wasn't proud that he had just mowed through the druggies like they were dummies, but he had certainly enjoyed the power trip. The feeling of adrenaline as he saw the bodies fall, the feeling of knowing he could've spared their lives but chose not to, the feeling of _power_ in finally getting to control something's—some_one's_—life was something he could get used to. It was like a drug for him, soothing his anger at having to live on the run for so many years and being tossed around like a ragdoll for the memories of some long-dead guy. Sure, perhaps he didn't need to kill those men, but they were in his way, and he still did want to use his gun (how could he not? It was a brand new toy for him). The difference between killing on a mission and killing those innocents was—there wasn't one. Killing was killing, and half of the time, he wasn't entirely sure why he was killing his mark, simply being told that he had to die to better humanity (and the assassins, but that was never said). He had become cold to murder ever since he had felt Altair's blade pierce his final target's throat.

Ezio told him that he was a disgrace to the line for abandoning the creed.

He thought that he _was_ following the Creed. He had done exactly as General Cross had ordered him. It would've done them no good if the druggies had seen the submarine.

Ezio hissed, berating him for betraying them.

Altair was the one who shut him up. He told Desmond that it was good he wasn't exactly proud of murdering innocents, but he was just as guilty as him, and there _was_ a sick sort of unbridled happiness in knowing he had power. Desmond nodded, inclined to believe him, and while Altair wasn't condoning the murder of the civilians, he certainly wasn't telling him not to do it again.

He fell into blissful slumber after that, recalling the first kill he had ever made inside the Animus, the first kill he had ever made outside the Animus. He wondered if it had ever occurred to his ancestors the guards were innocents as well, paid to try to protect their families. Altair had certainly considered that, but he still enjoyed killing them anyway. Perhaps it wasn't the blood of an assassin that ran through his veins, but the blood of a sociopath. There was thin line between the two.

He looked when he felt something kick his boot, and Jarrod was standing above him, mask off.

"Wanna play cards?"

They had dealt out the hands for a game of "Go Fish," when a voice came crackling over the radio.

"_Well la-de-fucking-da, it's Mercer."_

Desmond smirked, and Jarrod chuckled.

"_I have no Goddamn clue where Dana is. I do, however, know she's in a submarine in the ocean, guarded by two of my men."_

Desmond held a fist out, and Jarrod bumped it back.

"_And I can get her back to you if you're willing to make a deal. Otherwise, I'm afraid she's gonna sleep on the ocean floor forever."_

He laughed. General Cross sounded so smug.

"_Desmond, give the earpiece to Dana. Alex wants to speak to her._"

He did as he was told, despite Dana's struggle and refusal to speak at first.

"Alex? Is that you?"

He adjusted, wondering if they should tie her down instead of just cuffing her.

"Don't let them force you to do anything you don't want to, okay?"

A soft murmur from the other side.

"All I know is I'm in the ocean. I can't tell you more. I have no idea. I'm cuffed. I didn't struggle too much since, you know, they have guns… and I don't."

They chatted for a little while longer before he took the piece back and reattached it.

"_And you,"_ came growling into his ear. God, Desmond liked that voice. _"If you hurt her, I will rip you limb from limb."_

He felt an excited smile stretch his lips.

"I'll look forward to it, _Alex_," he purred in the same way Ezio did to get any woman—or man, in some occasions—into bed.

There was a fierce snarl on the other end. He could fuck with this man's mind all night. He wondered if General Cross would let him purr dirty, obscene things into the mike to irritate him. They turned back to their game of "Go Fish," bunkering down for several long days in the submarine.

It was about the third day things got extremely boring. Sure, they had stopped once for food, but there was nothing to do as they waited to get orders to come back. There had been a couple of brief communications with them as they hammered out details with Alex, but, in a sense, all there was was Jarrod and Dana. The military was always working, always moving, always generally glaring at them because they were _Blackwatch_.

Dana wasn't much fun, either. She would sit there, quietly, and stare at the two—stare at him, and Lord Almighty if he didn't want to wipe that sympathetic look off her face. Nevertheless, they entertained themselves with cards and pestering each other, or dozing briefly, or trying to scare the others on board. The contract was almost drawn, at the end of six days, when he woke to feel Dana kicking his boot. He looked at her, and she stared back.

"Yeah?"

"I don't get it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Don't get what?"

"How you seem so human."

He blinked. "What?"

"Watching you and other man there… you seem almost human. Not like everyone describes Blackwatch. Or the Wisemen."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "We are humans. The difference is, we do inhuman work."

Dana stared at him a while more before he shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Jarrod had his head in his lap.

"You should've been there during the Infection," Jarrod murmured, staring at the ceiling of the submarine. "It was awesome. And we got to see Cross fight Mercer. That was fucking cool. Nothing's going to ever compare to that."

"The Infection was hell," Dana hissed.

"It gave you a better brother," Jarrod scoffed. "Well, kinda. I don't think I'd want to be related to a germ like him."

Desmond smiled. "It's almost adorable how protective he is of her."

Jarrod laughed. "Almost, but not quite."

"Don't either of you have a family outside of your psychotic team?" Dana asked, shifting.

Desmond thought she looked like she was trying to figure him out.

"I don't," Jarrod said. "I was an orphan before I joined Wisemen."

"I did. But after I ran away, the Templars destroyed my town, and then I thought I found one in the team I hooked up with, but, eh… As Shaun said, 'I don't want you, and I never have. It was just because we need your ancestors' memories we kept you around.'"

"Who's Shaun?" Dana asked.

Desmond shook his head. "He's no one important. If anything, I owe him for sending me away; otherwise, I never would've started bootcamp."

"Is it Shaun Hastings?"

He scowled. "Yeah, and tell him if he ever shows his fat head around me again, I'm gonna use all my power as a Wisemen team member to make his life a living Hell."

Dana frowned.

"I'm sure if you ask, he'll tell you. He doesn't like me at all. As a matter of fact, he'll probably tell you it if you even mention my name."

"I'm sure you're being overdramatic."

"I'm not. It's clear you've never been around him."

He effectively ended the conversation, that old rage bubbling in his stomach as he closed his eyes, willing the memories of that day away. He was quiet for the remainder of the day, purposefully ignoring Dana whenever she made a request. Jarrod would laugh at them whenever she would try to get his attention, but he wasn't going to have it. If she even mentioned Shaun once more, he would blow her head off, and all of their plans would be for not. Around noon, they got the orders to come back, and Desmond heaved a sigh of relief. He was finally getting out of the submarine and away from Dana and all his problems. He would have to stay away from her. If she wanted info on his life that bad, she could find it in the assassins' database. There was no point for him to look back.

He ignored her until they were back, pulling into the piers several streets down from their base. They had decided it would be safer if they didn't tell them which pier they would pull up on in order to keep Alex from simply picking the submarine and ripping them all to pieces. He put his mask on, shouldering his gun. Alex was back at base, waiting anxiously for his sister to return, the contract having been sent off to the White House, so even if he did destroy the base, he would still have to work for him.

As he stepped out of the submarine and onto the pier, he shot the man waiting for him on reflex when he went to give him a handshake. There had been something on his wrist, and Desmond trusted nothing on a wrist. He blinked when Dana gasped.

"What was that for?"

That face looked familiar. He bent over it, looking at the face. He was familiar—but not from the military. The blood was pooling around the single bullet hole in the chest, and he grabbed the chin, examining him.

"Who's that?"

Desmond pulled down the sleeve, only to find a small box strapped to the underside of the wrist. He examined the hand to find the button, and out slipped a small needle. He could see the liquid dripping from it—a modified poison blade: an assassin.

"So, this is Blackwatch, hm? A bunch of heartless killers."

He looked to find three more familiar faces standing there—and one extremely familiar scowl. Shaun—Lucy—Rebecca—they were here, pointing pistols at him. There was another, too. He frowned behind his mask, standing, still holding the wrist. He jerked the body up to show them.

"This—this is planned assassination."

Lucy jerked the gun. "Set it down. Those military dogs won't help you."

He could feel Jarrod get ready to shoot one of them, and he waved him off. He could outwit these guys. He turned the barrel toward himself and held out his Carbine. When she went to take it, he grabbed her occupied hand and spun her around, twisting Lucy's arm behind her and snapping it in two to get the pistol and fire at the stranger before using her to shield himself. He could feel her struggling in his arm, the Carbine laying uselessly behind him. He laughed harshly.

"Set them down, kids."

Rebecca and Shaun were stunned. Apparently, they hadn't heard he was one of the Blackwatch yet. Lucy was putting up a fierce fight, and he remembered that at one point in time he could make her writhe like this for other reasons, and now all he could think about was lodging a bullet in her fucking skull. Jarrod had his gun up and pointed at them, and Dana was still quiet, watching, her eyes full of loathing.

"You can't out smart me, damnit," he said, still laughing. "I know all of you too well."

Shaun dropped his gun, and Rebecca followed suit.

Rebecca frowned. "How do you know us?"

"_This is General Cross. Over._"

"Loud an' clear, General," Desmond said.

"_Is everything all right?"_

"Someone tried to assassinate us. We've got three of the five of them. Dana is still alive and well, over," Jarrod responded into the headpiece.

"_Who the fuck are they?"_

"Assassins. The real deal. That shady organization the President works for sent them," Desmond replied, smashing Lucy in the head with the butt of the pistol to stun her.

"_The guys you used to work for?"_

"Yup."

"_Kill them."_

"Should we take hostages, sir?"

"I think we should, General. I know these guys pretty well."

"Pretty well—who are you?" Shaun spat, bristling.

"_Eh… I guess. I don't know what the hell we'd do with them, though."_

"Well, you see, one of them has a special place in my heart."

He could almost hear the amusement in his voice, _"Then bring them in, boys. We're having some fun tonight."_

Desmond grinned behind his mask as he dropped the limp body and picked up the Carbine again. He nudged her and chuckled when she stirred. He motioned to Rebecca.

"Come get her."

He held his gun up as she approached the body warily and picked it up.

"Who the bloody Hell are you?" Shaun snarled.

Desmond laughed as he nudged the prisoners into a line and into a march.

"You'll find out in due time, limey."

Shaun snarled. He had missed that. He took pride in having them march like dogs, and when they entered the base, he saw Alex Mercer waiting by General Cross. When Alex saw Dana, he rushed over, giving her a hug as he snapped the cuffs. The entire family was good looking.

"Dana," he murmured.

For an instant, Desmond had to admit he was jealous of the siblings.

"I'm fine, Alex." It sounded as if she wasn't even trying to hide the hatred in her voice.

The other Wisemen took the three assassins inside. He hoped he'd be able to talk to Shaun later, and his eyes widened marginally at the vivid images of torture running through his mind. He knew they were coming from Altair—torture had been one of the things they taught at Masyaf to extract information. But what surprised him most, was the fact that he found himself completely immune to it. Before, when he had lived through the memory of Altair torturing someone and been pulled out, he had gotten a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had thrown up in the toilet, and felt like the lowest of humans. He had felt regret and remorse: he had had nightmares for months.

Now, he realized, he felt the itch in his fingers to hold the branding rods. He wanted to see Shaun's pupils dilate in extreme pain, and he could feel that familiar anger coil in his belly and heat the blood in his veins. He was looking forward to it. The Blackwatch mindset was seeping in. He could hear Altair chuckle, asking him if was really the Blackwatch mindset or just him. He watched as Alex disappeared to take his sister home, and General Cross was grinning.

"Well now, nice job, you guys. I think we're in for a party tonight. Alex'll be stationed here, so you'll see him plenty. He'll accompany us on our missions."

Desmond nodded, looking back at the door the assassins had been moved into.

"So you really know them?"

"Yes, sir," Desmond said. "And part of me still wishes I was with them."

The General wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Come on: let's get lunch to celebrate our victory, and you can tell the rest of us what happened with them. Sound good?"

Desmond looked at him and smiled almost sadly as he was led in. "Yeah. It does."

Jarrod laughed as he fell in step with them. "I hope you don't go back to them. I gotta admit: I like having you on the team."

Desmond grinned at that feeling, fighting the painful feeling in his chest conflicting with the lazy heat of anger from being treated like shit. He was too hopeful. He spent the afternoon with the Wisemen team, regaling the entire tale to them. He finished with joining boot camp, and leaned back in seat, chewing on the end of a fork.

"Sounds like a wild ride," Kenneth said. "Kinda makes me glad I was here instead. Damn, now all those stories about you in boot camp make sense."

Desmond nodded. "It… wasn't fun, to say the least. Several times, I almost tried to commit suicide before I had the assassins stick me in boot camp."

"Well," Seth picked up, "I'm glad you're here. And I'm glad you know those guys. Just wait until you see my awesome skills tonight."

"Awesome skills?"

General Cross laughed. "This man is our master of torture. He's gotten more information than an encyclopedia."

Seth rose and performed an extravagant bow. "I studied ancient torture in college."

"No way," Desmond said with a laugh. "How far back?"

"As far as I could go," he said as he grinned.

Desmond nodded, and Altair scoffed in the back of his mind. Time passed quickly, and when nighttime rolled around, Desmond found himself with a knot in his gut and an itch in his fingers to get the game going. He paced down the base hallways, thinking about how long they seemed and unable to wait for when they would end at that door with his old team behind it. His footsteps echoed in the empty halls, all of the military men asleep in their bunks, getting ready to be sent home. His whole body gave a violent jerk, and he could hardly swallow as he turned the corner to see that foreboding door at the end of the hall. Michael nodded at him as he grew closer, and he nodded back. Their masks looked so demonic, and a small flare of pride made itself known. He hadn't heard from either Altair or Ezio yet. He smiled behind his mask.

The click of the door as he opened it for him seemed almost deafening as he saw the three people tied up behind it. Lucy's arm was purple and swollen from where he had broken it earlier, and he paused in the doorway. That knot in his gut gave a violent twist, and he exhaled loudly. This was it. This was his time. There would be no regret on his part.

Of course, Ezio told him otherwise.

And for that, Altair told the Italian to fuck off.

He could almost feel the Arab standing flush against him, running his hands through the Blackwatch uniform to smooth over his skin.

"_You can do this, Desmond."_

He could almost hear the mirth in Altair's voice. Until the Apple had sucked him in, Altair had been a sadist. He had gotten glee in fighting and killing, and there had been that sick twist of joy in his gut whenever he had to pry information out of someone and beat them up. Of course, Desmond remembered there had always been that hope that he wouldn't spill, and he would have to use more gruesome techniques. He could feel Altair breathe on his ear, and he could feel the curl of that sadistic, lazy smile.

"_You chose to betray the order that betray you. Serve your new one with all you have._"

He shivered, and Altair chuckled, quietly and beautifully in his ear.

"_Don't worry. I'll help you. We were trained for this. And if you think this is beautiful, you should've seen Malik's interrogation methods. HE was even better than I."_

He could feel Altair give him a small push.

"_And don't forget to remove your mask. Make it personal."_

Desmond looked over his shoulder, only to find nothing in his wake. Maybe he was crazier than when he first joined boot camp. The other Wisemen were all ready there, and General Cross was sitting on a table, looking at him.

"You okay?"

Desmond looked at him and nodded, at first, slowly, then with a more vigorously. "Yeah. I'm fine, sir. Just… flashbacks."

"Well," General Cross said, smirking, "you will go fucking crazier here than you were before."

"And that's why we work," Sean said, laughing behind his mask.

"But that's cool," Matt said. "'Cause we're one, big, happy family, ain't we?"

Desmond laughed and looked at the three tied up assassins. Lucy looked as if she was in bad shape, and he almost felt bad: it hadn't been her fault she had been wary around him after stabbing him. Rebecca looked downright terrified and defiant all at once, and Shaun looked, well, pissed off. That was nothing new.

"Who are you?" Shaun hissed, looking between them. "Which bloody one of you knew us?"

"I don't think you're in any position to be making orders, _Hastings,_" Desmond growled, "but I suppose I can oblige you."

He pulled off his mask and held it in his hands, shaking his head. With a smirk, he looked at them. He laughed when he saw Shaun's face pale considerably, and Rebecca looked upset. He had actually liked her. Lucy gritted her teeth, looking pained. Perhaps he should give her a mercy shot. He could let Rebecca go. Let her warn the assassin order of his betrayal.

"D-Desmond?" Rebecca murmured.

"None other!" he chirped, smiling warmly. "It's funny how the tables turn, right? For once, _I'm _in control, and _you're_ going to be put through Hell. It's a pity, really, that I can't get you guys into the Animus, too, but this'll do. Minimally."

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><p><strong>Not doing too bad... I think. I DO intend to put up the torture, but it will be in a separate chapter, one that can be skipped, and I will warn for it. So, no complaining, all right? Unless that's part of your review or something. Like, "I dunno, I don't think it's necessary, since... [X, Y, and Z]" or "I think that would take away from the story because of [X], and I think that [Y] may be a better alternative."<br>**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part one of two for warnings of torture.**

**Many, many thanks to _Schmuzz _and for giving me feedback on the chapter(s). Especially to Schmuzz, who read it more than once-you've been a saint for reading it for me. **As well as to my gmail friend, A.**K.. :3 Thank you, guys!  
><strong>

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><p>"I don't get it, Des," Rebecca whispered. "What'd we do?"<p>

Desmond dropped his helmet on the floor. "It's not anything you did, Rebecca. I wouldn't worry for your sake. You'll be fine. But Shaun here is the one I'd be worried about."

He smiled at Shaun briefly.

"What happened to you, Desmond?" Lucy said, her brows furrowing as she looked at him.

Desmond chuckled. "Shaun didn't tell you? He kicked me out after I went home with him, and I came here. I had the assassins pull some strings for me, and I got into boot camp."

"Arguably," Shaun spat, "you're crazier now than before."

"Fuck that," General Cross said, and he looked toward the General. "You shoulda seen the boy. He lopped off his own ring finger, then tried to kill a drill sergeant by throwing a butter knife at him. He's in good care now."

"I'm sorry, Desmond," Lucy said, hanging her head. "I didn't—"

"It's okay, Lucy," he said, with a nonchalant shrug and a wave of his hands. "You don't have to stay here."

"I'd rather die," she murmured, "then live knowing I let you become a blood-thirsty, crazy demon."

He pulled out the pistol from his belt and aimed at Lucy. "I really did like you. Perhaps it would've turned out different if I had been sent home with you instead of Shaun."

He shot her, point blank. Shaun flinched at the blood as the chair rocked slightly from the impact. He heard Rebecca's shriek when the spray hit the wall with an almost pleasing "splat" in conjunction to the scrape of the metal legs against the concrete floor. He shoved the gun back in the belt. He looked at the other two: Rebecca was wide-eyed in shock, almost as if she didn't believe Lucy was actually dead, and Shaun's mouth was hanging open.

"I did have a crush on her at one point," he murmured. "Oh well, too late."

"Did you have to do that, Desmond?" Matt said, walking over to examine the body.

"I don't want Rebecca hurt, either. She didn't do anything to me."

Trevor sighed. "Are you sure?"

Desmond smiled. "I'm positive. Let her go, and keep Lucy's body until she can come pick it up."

"D-Desmond?"

He looked over at Rebecca, who was shaking. "Yeah?"

"I—you…"

He raised an eyebrow, his lip curling up into a twisted grin that showed his canines. "Yeah?"

"L-Lucy."

"What about her? She's dead now."

Matt cut the bonds they had used to secure her and carried her over by the back of her shirt like a ragdoll. He thrust the body into her face, and she screamed, struggling violently.

"Th-that's sick!"

"That's the Wisemen," Matt said, a purr to his voice that hadn't been there before.

Desmond could feel a shiver run down his spine as Matt and several others laughed at Rebecca's struggles to get out of the chair as he and another dropped the body in her laugh. Panicking, she twisted and thrashed until it fell on the floor, and she tried to pull away from it.

"H-how could you-!"

"He's not human, Rebecca," he heard Shaun hiss, and he looked at the man.

"I vaguely remember you saying that while we were on the run, too. He's the one we want, guys. He's the enemy."

"He didn't have much of a reaction to seeing her die," Trevor mumbled.

"We're assassins," Shaun ground out, although the panic was there, too, and Desmond was becoming excited. "We're paid to deliver death. It's bound to happen to us as well, whether by human or… _demon."_

He turned to see Seth grinning manically. "What did he do?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but Kenneth beat him to it. "Why don't you ask him, Seth? And if he doesn't tell you word for word what happened, why not have some fun?"

He watched them drag Lucy's body from the room, and General Cross took Rebecca out to get her back to where she came from. She was in a state of shock, looking back over at him once to meet his gaze, and he nodded farewell. She grimaced.

"So, Shaun, wanna tell us what happened?" Seth had grabbed his chin, staring at him.

Shaun hissed. "Never. This is between Desmond and I to work out. Not mindless barbarians like yourselves to solve for him."

Seth laughed. "That's where you're wrong, man. We got dragged into this shit when Desmond was adopted. We love him, don't we?"

The other three in the room murmured in agreement, and one of them wrapped an arm around Desmond's shoulders, patting his chest.

"He's our baby brother now. The rest of us here are all in our upper forties. We won't live much longer in this field. As a matter of fact, I think we've got the next assignment all ready lined up. Overseas in Afghanistan."

There was an excited murmur as Seth tightened his grip on Shaun's chin. "So, wanna tell us?"

"No. I wish to speak to Desmond. Alone."

Kenneth chuckled. "You are alone. There's none of your little assassin buddies to help you."

Shaun snarled, and Desmond felt himself be soothed a little bit as he felt Kenneth's arm tighten around his shoulders. There was still that sickening feeling in his gut, and he was trying his best to squish it. He did still like—love—Shaun, and there was something to be said about watching his favorite person be forced to this. He saw a flash of white behind Seth and Shaun, and he looked, tensing when he saw Altair and Ezio watching him.

"_Don't go back now," _Altair murmured, and Ezio snarled at Altair.

"_How can you forgive this?"_

"_It's clear that we can't stop him."_

"_So? You should not be supporting these decisions!"_

Altair looked at Desmond, placing a hand on Shaun's shoulder. _"Why should I not? It is clear he has been ruined."_

"_This is ridiculous, Altair. You are not yourself."_

He watched a wicked smirk crawl lazily over his lips. _"Perhaps I am, and you don't know that. I will give him my support. It is not like I can do much else, now._"

He met Altair's golden eyes, and he blinked.

"_Perhaps I am just a projection of a madman's mind."_

He vanished, and Ezio gave him a stern look before vanishing as well. Just the projection of a madman's mind—not yet, he wasn't. He hoped. He jumped when Kenneth nudged him, and he saw that Matt and Trevor had pulled up seats to watch. Shaun was glaring at him, a lovely bruise starting to swell over his jaw. An improvement, he almost wanted to say. His glasses were removed as he looked at the man.

"You still here, Des?" Kenneth said, and he removed his helmet to look at him better.

Desmond looked at the worried face, and he nodded to reassure him. "No problem, just… distracted. Flashbacks. You understand, right?"

"Course," Matt said, flinging his helmet off to the side of the room. "No prob."

"Shaun here has something to say to you while I get the staple gun to keep his glasses on," Seth said, dismissing himself.

Desmond stared at Shaun, who glared defiantly at Seth's back until he left. The man seemed to deflate after that, looking down.

"What?"

He inhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, Desmond."

"Of course you are now—"

"No, I mean, after I told you to leave, I tried to date other men, and none of them worked."

"I don't believe you."

"It doesn't matter if you do or not, Desmond. But I had to tell you the truth. I tried several different men, and I found myself comparing them to you. All those things I said that night plagued my dreams. I haven't been at all well ever since I forced you to leave."

Desmond snorted, but he wasn't going to tell Shaun he was eating up every word. He had wanted to hear those words badly, and they were exactly what he wanted. He wanted to kiss the man and hug him. He loved Shaun. Unbidden anger ceased him, and he stepped over, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back.

"What the Hell? Do you fucking expect me to believe that bullshit?"

He snarled, staring into his eyes. He was _pleased_ at the fear he saw there. He had finally instilled fear, fucking _fear_, into someone.

"Do you fucking expect me to believe that, you fucking son of a bitch? After all that shit you yelled at me while your _mother_ was out of the house?"

He saw Shaun open his mouth to retort, and before he knew it, his fist was solidly against Shaun's face, and he could feel something warm begin to trickle out of his nose.

"You Goddamn prick! You just expect me to drop everything for you and come back? After I sawed off my own finger and had the shit beaten out me several times by the drill sergeants?"

Shaun opened his mouth again, and he snarled as he removed his fist, shaking the man.

"After I nearly killed myself trying to get my shit together after you told me that you _never wanted to see me again_? You want me to fucking come back to you? You think that shitty apology will do the trick?"

"No!" Shaun snarled, pulling at the bindings. "No, I don't expect it to! I'm saying I made a mistake!"

"Hell to the fucking yeah you made a Goddamn mistake! And now you're fucking gonna pay for it, you slimy dickhead!"

"I'm the slimy dickhead? I'm not the one employed to be a bloody sadist!"

"You always were a fucking sadist! You have no idea how much it fucking _hurt_ hearing you say that you never actually liked me and the only reason you fucking slept with me was to keep me from going crazy! Look how fucking well that did, Shaun!"

"I'm back!" Seth chirped merrily as Desmond and Shaun looked at him.

He paused, surveying the scene. Desmond snarled, and Seth laughed, holding up the staple gun.

"Looks like I came right in time. We wouldn't want your glasses falling off now, would we?"

Desmond straightened, giving the gun a thorough once-over, then growled, "Those staples won't kill him, will they?"

He watched Seth shiver. "God, your voice. You are perfect for this team. That-that is scary. But no, six millimeters. The adult human skull? Five to eight. We should be good."

He stepped aside, hatred _burning_ inside him. He snarled when Shaun tried to move away, his eyes growing wide.

"This won't kill him, kid. I've been doing this for years. I'm the oldest on this team aside from Cross, who's, like, a million and three. Hold him still for me, will you?"

Desmond moved behind him and grabbed his head, holding it firmly and leaving no room to struggle. He laughed when Shaun _whimpered _as Seth aligned the gun and the glasses underneath it. He grinned when he heard the gun go off, and Shaun tried valiantly not to scream. He could see tears forming at the corner of his eyes, and he felt a vicious satisfaction at the labored breathing as Shaun tried to keep himself from admitting painful defeat.

"Damn," Seth said, looking up at him. "You let his head move when it fired. I'll need to put in another staple."

"By all means," Desmond purred. "Put in another."

He chuckled, again, as he repeated the process. There was a choked sob from Shaun, and he watched the man's entire body jerk in response, another high-pitched whimper coming out as another tear fell. It had to hurt worse than an ordinary migraine.

"There. That should keep them steady, but we'll want to staple the sides, too. Just to make sure they don't shift."

He forced Shaun to turn his head.

"Thanks, buddy."

He grinned at Shaun's strangled cry of pain. The gun went off again, and Shaun bit his lips hard enough to make it bleed, a high-pitched, short scream trying desperately to come out filling the room. He forced him to look the other way. The sharp sound of the staple impacting his head made his eyebrows move together and the curl of his lips become much darker, and he drank up the sharp cry of pain from Shaun.

"Now," Seth said, straightening up and tossing the gun to the side, "wanna tell us what you did to Desmond?"

Shaun whimpered again, his head bobbing forward a bit when Desmond let go and walked back over. Kenneth wrapped his arm around him again. There was a shiny trail down the victim's cheek, his eyes still glistening from the build-up of unbidden tears in the low light.

"You're a good addition to this team, kiddo."

Desmond smiled. He saw Trevor get up and go to fetch something while Shaun tried to glare defiantly, the cracked bones probably making it hard to think. He looked up at a flash of white and raised an eyebrow at Ezio. The man looked downright horrified.

"Yes?"

"_Desmond…_"

He smiled like a child who had done no wrong. "He had it coming."

Ezio stepped forward, through Shaun, and kept moving, stretching his arms out. Desmond jerked back. "Don't touch me."

"_Desmond, mio bambino—"_

He looked so caring, so loving, so—he hated it. He had never had that kind of love in his life, and he didn't need it. Ezio could fuck off. He didn't want him to care about him. He was a _ghost_. He was _imaginary_.

"Don't you dare fucking touch me!"

He jerked away from Kenneth and moved backward, away from Ezio and his hug until his back was against the wall.

"_Mio bambino, why do you do this?"_

"That bastard fucking deserves it!"

He was trapped as Ezio moved closer, and he gritted his teeth. That look in his eyes almost made him want to let him hug him. But he couldn't. That would be impossible. He couldn't have a ghost care for him. He had wanted Shaun to hug him like that.

"Stop looking at me like that!" he screeched, squatting down. "Stop it!"

He closed his eyes, fisting his hands in his hair, and could still hear Ezio walking closer.

"I wanted to Shaun treat me like that—_stay away!_"

He could feel Ezio's arms around him, and he could feel the _warmth_ in the hug as he felt a hand comb through his hair.

"_Mio bambino, you need to stop this."_

He sobbed, leaning into the embrace. "I can't! I want to see him suffer! I want to see him get dealt the same Goddamn hand I did!"

"_Mio bambino, per favore, think about what you're doing."_

He smashed his hands against Ezio armor, crying. "I won't! I can't! He deserves it!"

He heard Ezio shush him, rubbing a hand over his back and singing to him a lullaby he had heard Shaun sing to him before, while they were deep underground, hiding from the Templars. It sounded beautiful in Ezio's voice, in the native Italian tongue it was meant for, and Desmond sobbed into his ancestor, clinging to him tightly. He wanted to hear Shaun sing it again.

He startled awake. He looked around himself to see no Ezio—only his Wisemen buddies sleeping in their bunks, and General Cross asleep in a chair beside him. He sat up, looking around. There was no Ezio. There was no Shaun. He was in his own bunk, wrapped up in some extra blankets.

"You back with us, Desmond?"

He looked to see the General looking at him.

"You had us worried. Kenneth filled me in after you collapsed in the room with Shaun."

"So… he is here?"

"Yes. Care to tell us what happened?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, looking down at his lap. "One of my ancestors was trying to convince me to stop it."

"Are you sure you can—"

"Yes," he snapped, glaring at General Cross. "I can fucking keep up with it. I love this Goddamn job. You are my fucking saviors. I don't care what I have to do to make him shut up, even if it means torturing Shaun myself."

A tired smile crept across the General's face. "I'm sure you can make it, Desmond. Only the best make it into the Wisemen."

He nodded. "Right. I am a part of the Wiseman team, now."

General Cross leaned forward. "And I got some bad news."

"What is it?" he said, looking at him.

"The president is withholding the information on my kid."

"Can he do that?"

"No," General Cross growled, giving him a fierce stare. "And I'm not going to rest until I find out."

Desmond pursed his lips, a quick nod for his salute. "I hope shit comes through for you, sir."

"He's awake?"

He jumped when Kenneth's head appeared over the edge of the bunk bed. He blinked.

"You're awake! Guys! Newbie's okay!"

There was some stirring in the other bunks, and slowly, the other Wisemen roused themselves and came over.

"You had us terrified, Des," Trevor said. "You sure you can—"

"I'm sure he can," General Cross said. "You have to remember that he had no psychiatric help before this that worked."

Several of them murmured unintelligibly, still waking up.

"So what happened?" Matt said, sitting at the foot of his bunk.

"I…"

He told them about Ezio, and how he kept trying to get him to go back to the assassins' order, and how Altair kept appearing, urging him forward. He told them about what Ezio said, and the hug he gave him, and Desmond gritted his teeth at the end of it.

"I joined this Order to beat my ancestors. I'm not letting him win."

A cruel smirk crawled over Seth's lips. "Wanna go vent on your favorite toy?"

Desmond's gaze snapped to him, and he stared at him intensely as if he thought Seth were joking.

"We've kept him nice and easy for you. Gotta say he's probably got a killer headache, but that's okay."

Desmond took the offered hand and rose, dressing quickly and following them back to the room. Shaun was sitting in the chair, dried blood all over his face and head. There was a lovely bruise blossoming over his jaw, and his nose was popped back into place. He had a dazed look in his eyes. A thin wire was poking through his hands bound at his back, twisting around his fingers and wrists, digging into the skin. Desmond was trembling with rage.

"You mother fucker!" he screamed, and Shaun startled awake, snapping his head to look at him, only to be met with a solid punch. "I was doing perfectly well until you showed your Goddamn fat head around here again!"

He turned when Seth coughed. He was holding a wood burning pen, plugged in and ready to go.

"Maybe you should give him the Blackwatch symbol. I heard your ancestors had some artistic talent."

Desmond snarled as Shaun squirmed, his eyes wide and panicked. He felt damn _good_ to _finally_ be inspiring fear in someone. He took the pen, rolling it over in his hand and giving the man a thorough look over. He needed somewhere this would hurt. Somewhere every time Shaun moved, he'd feel the pain and be reminded of just what he did. Some place sensitive.

"Under the arm is a good place to give a tattoo," Matt offered.

Shaun shook his head. "D-Desmond, l-listen—"

"I'm sick of listening to you," he snarled, kneeling by his side. "Shut up. Someone come hold his arm back."

He couldn't help but smirk victoriously as he felt Shaun twitch and writhe beneath the pen as he burned through the cloth and into the skin, reveling in the smell of burning flesh. It was an almost intoxicating scent, and if he were any more sadistic, he'd say it might just be enough to give him a boner. He could see Shaun's muscles twitching beneath the pen, as if they could get away, and he could hear the soft pleas of "S-Stop it, please," and "I'm sorry, Desmond," as he pressed the pen harder into the skin to draw louder pleas and cries of pain.

"_It does have a pleasing odor, doesn't it?"_

Figures Altair would be back. He could see him squatting just behind him, watching. He nodded.

"_Speak._"

"That's why I fit in so well," Desmond murmured, concentrating as he burned the Blackwatch star deep into the man's skin, pressing just a wee bit harder and hearing the, "S-stop, please! I'm sorry!"

"I'm a fucking lunatic."

Altair was silent a moment more as he watched him burn in the insignia. _"Better than I could do."_

"Your picture of Maria was pretty good."

"_That was the brainwash of the Apple,"_ he hissed.

Just a projection of a madman's mind, Desmond mused, and he heard Altair chuckle, soft and warm like melting butter as he felt him reach around him. He paused briefly, watching Altair's arms reach up, his hands wrapping around his own, and feeling that solid body against his.

"_Let me help."_

Sure, it was an awkward angle, but he could handle it himself. Nevertheless, Desmond nodded. He let the older assassin guide him through the star, and through the wings, then helped him scrawl, "Property of Desmond Miles," across the ribcage, drinking up the shrieks and breathless whimpers. There were glossy tear streaks down Shaun's cheeks as he ran his fingers almost lovingly over the label to let others know that he was his. His victim's laboring breathing and shrieks were music to him—for him—a movement all for him. Altair stepped back, and Desmond turned to look at him. He could feel his lips curl lazily at his smirk, almost hidden beneath the hood.

"_Do your new Order proud, Desmond. Let not what Ezio says dissuade you."_

The man vanished. He blinked as the others crowded to see the work, and he sighed softly at Shaun's glare. It was largely ineffective with tear streaks and the constant jerks while he moaned lowly in pain as the wire cut into his skin.

"What the bloody Hell would you ancestors say to this?" the man tried to spit, sobbing in pain again as his arm is forced upward to let the others see his new brands.

"Ezio's already tried to stop me," Desmond growled, cracking his knuckles and popping his neck. "And he won't be able to."

He laughed at Shaun's screech when one of the men smacked one of the staples and poked the burn. The noise turned into a low groan, and he grinned.

"And I won't stop until you are completely and thoroughly broken," Desmond snarled, "until I'm sure you've felt the same pain I've gone through in the Animus and after you said all that shit."

"Desmond, think rational—"

"This booger's got quite the mouth on him, don't he?" Seth asked. "We should shut him up."

"It's fucking impossible," Desmond growled.

"No, it's not," Matt said, as Seth walked out of the room with an arrogant strut. "I told you: Seth's the best there is."

"Look, Desmond," Shaun began, a little bit more panicked, and a whole lot more pained. "You need to—"

"I don't need to do anything other than follow General Cross's orders. I have a new Creed, now, and you aren't a part of it."

Shaun tried to hold back the scream as he smacked the side of his tattooed arm, and his eyes were twisted close as several unwanted tears slid down his cheeks. There was a pained grimace. He liked that face on Shaun: it suited him.

"Desmond, please—"

"Nuh-uh," Desmond said, waving him off, "nope."

He sat quietly until Seth returned. There was a small contraption in his hands, like two forks welded together to leave the prongs free. Shaun's eyes widened, and Desmond could feel his belly twist in excitement. If Shaun was afraid, it would be good, indeed.

"The Heretic's Fork, really?" Shaun said, trying valiantly to act brave through his current state. "Aren't you above medieval torture?"

"Not at all," Trevor said. "We're above anything that could stand in our way. We can do whatever we want."

He watched Shaun's eyes flicker with fear, and he felt his lips curl upward in the slightest when he struggled as Seth tried to put it on him.

"Des, come help me, kiddo," Seth said. "He's too squirmy."

"Sure thing."

He rose, and Shaun struggled harder. He could see the amount of pain he was in, and he was happy. There was nothing he couldn't do. He grabbed Shaun's head, slapping his hands on the staples on either side of this head. He grinned at the sharp cry and the harsh thrash as he watched Seth put the collar around him, jabbing one end above the sternum, avoiding anything major, and he watched the full body jerk as he adjusted it to jab into the flesh under the chin. Seth stepped back, wiping his hands.

"Okay, you ready to really let the pain start sinking in?"

Desmond nodded, letting Shaun's head go. The man didn't make a peep, but the gritted teeth and closed eyes told him everything he wanted to know.

"Then let's go get breakfast, and in a day or two, we'll come in and give him something to drink."

Desmond raised an eyebrow, and he felt Kenneth wrap an arm around him.

"Trust us, Desmond, if you really want him broken, it'll take a few days of starvation and isolation to do that."

"Are you sure?"

"We're sure we're sure," Seth said. "I've been doing my job and loving it for almost ten years now."

Desmond frowned, meeting Shaun's panicked, pained expression before looking away. "Fine."

Seth smiled. "Just to keep you happy, how about if I show you a fun torture method right after we deal with whatever General Cross needed us for."

"He needed us?"

"He just radioed a few of us."

"Not really understanding the method," Trevor said, "but I guess he assumed you and Seth were busy."

They put on their helmets as they walked out and down the hall to General Cross's office. The man was pacing back and forth, and he recognized the heads of the assassin order to be standing there, as well as a nervous as fuck Rebecca.

"There you fuckers are, Goddamnit. Desmond, who the hell are these shitheads?"

He looked at General Cross, who had his arms folded, his feet firmly planted in his spot as he stared at him. His brown eyes seemed to be torn between pride and fury.

"These are the men who ruled the old order I worked for."

"And just why the hell won't they just fucking leave?"

"Did you ask them?"

"I fucking tried!" he nearly shouted, flopping in the chair. "Goddamn fuckers just stand there like wraiths."

He looked at Rebecca, who looked away. "They want Lucy's body."

"They can't have it," Desmond snapped.

Rebecca snapped her head up to look at him. "W-what? Why not?"

"I killed her, and I think I want to turn her into a blanket," he hissed.

Of course he didn't. He would never dream of doing that to the woman who had cared infinitely for him: he just wanted to piss off the order. That was the first thing he could think of. He knew that it was customary to burn the bodies of the assassins they could retrieve, and there would be nothing more irritating than having the body turned into a blanket.

"And perhaps her bones made into something decorative."

He could hear Altair chuckle behind him.

"That's evil!" Rebecca shouted.

"I don't care!" Desmond snarled, his hands curling into fists.

He had wanted to let Rebecca go. He liked Rebecca. She needed to be freed of the restraints of the assassin order. She was the one he had hoped would stay in contact with him. And he had gotten letters from her about all her misadventures in snowboarding and sending him pictures of her mangled limbs or the chipmunk that attacked her. That's why he had let her go. She may have been too busy with everything she was doing, but she had still, at least, reached out to him.

"Please—"

"Shut up or I'll kill you," he growled, loving the way the mask distorted his voice.

"Her family—"

"I don't give a shit about her family!" he roared, and Rebecca backed up a step. "If I did, I would've sent her home alive!"

"Look, Desmond, all we want is Lucy's body!"

"No, I think having her turned into a blanket would be nice. I'm sure Seth could do it," he hissed.

"Actually," Seth said, punching his shoulder in a playful manner, "if you want something sewn, you should talk to Michael. He's best on our team."

Rebecca looked appalled. "You—you would seriously—"

"Why shouldn't we?" Michael said, laughing at her. "Have you ever seen an Arab skin lampshade? They're super—"

"That's fucking sick!"

"Wisemen team Blackwatch, at your service," Jarrod said, bowing extravagantly.

One of the whispered to her, and she muttered something brokenheartedly in response before looking at him. She stared at him, silent, and he could see the gears turning in her head from whatever the others had told her.

"Please, Dessie?" she whispered, giving him a familiar and pathetic look.

Dessie—now that was a name he hadn't heard in a long him. That was her personal nickname for him. She used that whenever she wanted something, and it also, usually, involved her getting on her hands and knees with a pitifully hilarious look and begging. She loved to overact. She clapped her hands together in a begging motion, knitting her eyebrows together. It was a pity it couldn't be like old times.

"Please? So I can have a funeral for her?"

He shook his head. He didn't, really, want to give up Lucy's body. Even though he hadn't seen her since she died, now that he thought about it, he didn't really want to give her up. He liked the idea of her being here. He didn't want to give her up yet. He snapped back when he heard Rebecca talking in some sort of gibberish with a horrid Arabic accent, and she had gotten several feet closer, looking absolutely ridiculous as she peered up from her hunched over position. She seemed to sense the smile that pulled at the corner of his lips from behind the mask, and she grinned. He couldn't help but grin.

"Just a couple coins?" she said, although it was almost impossible to understand with the hideous accent.

He couldn't win against her, really. She knew him too well. She knew his love of humor and was always ready to throw casual insults or jokes back and forth—compared to Shaun, who always seemed serious about it. She was like the sister he never had. He shook his head, grinning.

"That's racist," he replied, staring into her eyes.

Immediately, she straightened up and put her hands on her hips. "You're racist!"

They both started laughing, and he was relieved to find that she could still laugh, at least. There was an aura of confusion from the others, and he gave her a soft look, even though she couldn't see it.

"Wanna have lunch?"

"Sure, Des."

They walked out, arm in arm, to the mess hall, and the Marines that were stationed there seemed even more confused than the others in General Cross's office. As he pulled off his mask, she looked at him.

"Why didn't you take that off back there?"

He shrugged, his lips forming a thin line. "I couldn't."

"You should've let them see your face."

"That was my face."

There was amazed silence for a little bit before she shook her head and tucked into the military food. He saw the rest of the Wisemen team come shuffling in, and when they spotted him, they bombarded him.

"Why'd you leave?"

"Dude, those freaks in the hoods aren't leaving. General's gonna have us gun'em down if they don't leave soon."

Desmond smiled. "Guys, meet Rebecca. She was my best friend inside the assassins."

They paused, then looked at her, and she waved energetically. Slowly, they settled down around, laughing and joking around with her as if she were an old friend. She seemed almost surprised at how amiable they were, pressing about if she had a boyfriend or if she was a field assassin. He had a blast.

Eventually, she looked at him as they were walking back, and he knew she was going to ask something hard. She opened her mouth several times, then closed it again, and then mumbled, almost afraid, "And Shaun?"

"Don't worry about him," he said, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. "He's in good hands—"

"He's dead?" she yelped, her eyes wide with horror.

They laughed.

"No, I mean, he's still alive and kicking. Don't worry about him. He'll be fine."

Rebecca gave him an odd look, and he smiled reassuringly. As they approached the office again, he put his mask on, the others having already done so. She gave him a tight hug outside of the closed door, then pushed the door open and entered. Desmond and the others followed, and General Cross had a cup in his hands, looking much more relaxed as he sipped the iced coffee. He didn't need to see the faces of the heads of the order to know that they were _pissed_ at being so blatantly ignored.

"General Cross," he said, and the man cracked open one eye, "send Rebecca home with Lucy's body. She'll take good care of it."

General Cross nodded once, then sat up straight and called in someone from another department to take care of it. Rebecca winked at him.

"I'll see you around, then?" she said, sounding hopeful.

He shrugged. "Maybe. It all depends on how the wind blows."

"And hey, Dessie," she murmured as the others filed out quietly. She paused in the doorway. "Thanks."

"No problem, Becca."

She grinned and vanished.

"Kill those damn bastards if they come here again. Those hooded freaks think they own everything just because they own a president."

He laughed at General Cross's order, and the Wisemen team filed out. He spent the rest of the day with them, goofing around and joking—with Altair always just out of the corner of his eye, watching carefully with that pleased smirk on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part two of two for warnings of torture.**

**Many, many thanks to _One - Shot . Dump _for giving me feedback on the chapter(s). Why did it go through on the other chapter?  
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><p>He met Alex the next day in the fighting arena, watching as he helped sixteen Marines practice hand-to-hand combat. He watched curiously and stepped to the edge. After watching them attack for several minutes, he couldn't resist.<p>

"Pussies! I've seen old grannies do better than that!"

There was a lull in the fighting, and all the eyes were on him. He leapt into the makeshift arena.

"You wanna fight? I'll show you how to fight."

Alex growled, and Desmond smirked. When the first set of tentacles shot at him, he dodged them with the finesse of an assassin, using them to get closer. Alex snarled, swiping at him with his blade, and Desmond barely managed to avoid it, digging his fingers into the ridges and riding the arc to swing his legs up and connect with the man's body. In the next explosion of tendrils, he wrapped himself around them like a gymnast and forced his body to conform. He could do this for hours.

And he did. It was well into the evening before he fell. He never got many hits in, but he certainly gave the virus-boy a run for his money, and when he was finally pinned, covered by a slip in his footing, he laughed breathlessly at the man, who was panting and sweating. His entire body hurt from when Alex did manage to get him. He would have plenty of bruises, and he was sure there was a large gash on his back that might need stitches. And a few on his legs. And handful on his stomach. Damn, he was sore, but that was the best fight he had been challenged to in _months_.

"Fuggin' Cross," Alex snarled in between pants. "Fuggin… Just li'e Cross."

He grinned, squirming. "Yeah, and we could whup your ass."

Alex scoffed. "Cross's an old man."

Desmond sat up as Alex crawled off him and recalled the biomass. He brushed himself off, his clothes sweaty and sticky, and damn, he was hot. That virus put off a lot of heat. He looked at the area he had been pinned, surprised to find no blood. When he reached around to feel the gash on his back, he jumped at the wormy, warm virus ooze over his wounds. Alex was watching him through his peripheral vision, breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Stops the bleeding. Until you get to the medical wing."

Desmond nodded and tried to stand, but found his legs to be too shaky, and he grunted when they gave way. He landed in a black cloud of viral matter, and he flopped his head to look at Alex, who had one arm out, holding him. He was exhausted. That fight had been _incredible_.

"Don't wanna lose the only other guy who's made me pant."

There was an almost fond curve to those lips of his, and Desmond smiled, feeling that ache in his body and reveling in it.

"We'll do it again sometime," Alex said, and Desmond could feel him carry him to the medical wing, where he was stitched up and bandaged properly.

Sometime the next day, as he was taking it easy and chilling with Alex outside, Seth came over, twirling a razor between his fingers and whistling a gay tune. He jogged to the edge of the makeshift arena. They had struck up a warriors' bond, and Alex was telling him about his own struggles to become "human."

"Desmond! Just the beautiful young man I wanted to see!"

"What's up?" he said, reluctant to stop talking to the man.

"Wanna learn an awesome torture trick? We gotta get Shaun some water, anyway, so I figured why not have some fun?"

He grinned. "Okay."

He missed Alex's confused look as he rose, and he heard Alex stand as well.

"What are you…"

Desmond turned to look at Alex. "It's a personal problem. He's helping me take care of it."

"By… torture?"

"Yup."

"That's…"

"It's perfectly human. You said yourself you didn't know what being 'human' was all about, so you can come if you like. As long as you don't do _anything._"

He followed Seth into the room where Shaun was. The victim exhaled, loudly, when the lights were turned on, his eyes screwed shut and blood dribbling down his chin, his chest, and the fork. He was trying valiantly not to move, so that the fork wouldn't dig in any further, but Desmond could see the bags under his eyes and the panicked, muggy look on his face. There were tears streaks down his cheeks worn on the skin, and he almost wanted to run his finger along them just to lick his finger and taste the salt.

"Hi, Shaun."

He raised an eyebrow when Shaun only made a soft sobbing noise. It must have been working faster than anyone expected, he surmised when Seth murmured, "Hm… Weak minded."

That was not Shaun. Shaun was anything but. He was sarcastic and condescending, stubborn and ready to fight. This was not Shaun. This was someone else. Desmond let his gaze take in the pitiful man before him, and he pursed his lips. Shaun would not break that easily. He was strong-willed. This man was not Shaun. He walked up to the man and squatted in front of him, looking at him watching him from the corner of his eyes. He whimpered when Seth started undoing the collar to pull the fork off.

Alex snarled, "This isn't—"

"This is rage," Desmond snarled back, his eyes narrowing as he spun to face him. Alex looked ready to rip him to pieces. "You want to know what it's like to be human? Then stop trying! It's more complex than that!"

"That doesn't excuse—"

"Excuses or not, I'm going laugh until he takes his dying breath," Desmond growled, standing toe-to-toe with the man, feeling the stitches pull. "He's treated me like shit, let me go off to die of insanity, and I'm going to enjoy watching him break. If this bothers you, you can leave."

Alex's eyes seemed to soften a little bit, and he looked confused as he glanced over at the man and Seth, who was radioing in for water.

"And suddenly torture isn't that bad of an idea? Fucking monster," he snapped, causing that intense gaze to come back to him.

"Me the monster?"

"Yeah, you, pot calling the kettle black, right? Get used to it. It gets a lot more complicated than that. There's nothing normal about being human."

He snarled once more and faced Shaun, who flinched. His eyes traveled over the man again as his head lolled forward, and he growled. Moments later, Michael came in with a tray of food and several glasses with a pitcher of water.

"You missed lunch, so I brought Desmond some," he said with a shrug as he set the tray down and turned to leave. "Wish I could stay, but there's a poker game I'm going to beat Kenneth in… if that damn bastard hasn't cheated."

They waved goodbye, and Alex spoke as Desmond walked over to be near Seth, eager to learn.

"May I talk to him?"

"This boy ain't gonna talk," Seth said, running the razor almost lovingly along Shaun's chin, and Desmond's lips curled upward at the quiet sob.

"May I be with him, alone?"

"Definitely not. Can't have you eating him, virus freak."

"If Desmond remains in here?"

"What's so bad about me here, hm?"

"You're the torturer."

"Desmond is just as guilty."

"I want to figure out why."

"Ever the scientist, eh, Mercer?"

Alex snarled, and Seth laughed.

"What you wanna find out?"

"Why this is human."

"Why this is human?"

"Why this is human."

There was silence, and Seth raised an eyebrow as he looked at him. Alex was scowling.

"I want to study him."

"There's nothing interesting to study."

Alex shrugged. "I want to talk this guy and Desmond. I want to understand."

"How do I know you aren't going to eat him or something, you germ?"

Alex deadpanned, "Why would I kill the only man who poses a challenge to me?"

"What about Cross?"

"He's getting old."

"True enough," Seth said, looking at Desmond. "Are you okay with that?"

"I guess," he said as he shrugged.

Seth pursed his lips, looking doubtful, but he eventually threw his hands up. "Fine. But you'd better not do anything to him, you Goddamn, mother fucking ass-bandit, or me and the rest of the Wisemen'll wipe the floor with your ass for harming our new boy."

He pressed the razor into Desmond's hands, and Desmond nodded, smiling. "We'll be okay."

He gave Alex a warning glare before exiting. Desmond walked over and plopped down, beginning to eat, as the other man pulled up a chair to sit in front of Shaun. There was silence as he studied the man thoroughly.

"You're disgusting," Alex murmured to Desmond.

"He's disgusting."

There was no more sound out of them for several minutes. He watched as Shaun's eyes flickered back and forth between him, Alex, and the food. It was basic military food, and he didn't think much of it, but Shaun kept looking at his longingly. He wondered how long a human could last without food—he'd have to ask Seth. He could hear Alex murmur something, and he poured himself a glass of water. He caught the longing look Shaun gave the cup, and he raised an eyebrow. Seth had said something about giving him something to drink.

He paid him no more mind as he finished half the food and set it aside, listening absentmindedly to the quiet murmurs between them. Desmond folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. He heard a choked sob come from Shaun, and his mind wandered back toward him.

That was not Shaun. Shaun had had much more of a strong will. He would fight and argue to the end. There was something that wasn't right: he shouldn't have broken that easily. There must have been an underlying reason behind how quickly he had just given up. This man kept mumbling, "Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. Forgive me," like a broken record as Alex tried to talk to him. Shaun would not apologize unless he absolutely had to.

"He blames himself, you know."

He tilted his head to look at Alex, who was turned slightly in the seat to look at him. Shaun's head was lolling forward, and he frowned as Ezio appeared behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders and giving his victim a pathetic look.

"I can tell, but he should blame himself. It's his fault."

"That's what he said," Alex said. "He says he regrets letting you go."

"He sure didn't sound as if he would ever regret it when he told me all that shit a while ago."

"Perhaps he was too mad to notice."

"You don't even know what happened."

"I have a decent idea."

He slammed his hands against the table as he sent his dirtiest glare at all three of them. "You want to know what happened? I came down the stairs to ask him to come to bed with me, because for once—for once!—I was feeling lucid!"

"And then you got into an argument."

"Not even that. When I asked him to come to bed—you know I can't sleep without nightmares of all the shit I've gone through?—he _glared _at me. I apologized, and he said some smartass comment, and I told him that all I wanted to do was spend the night with him, and he just _fucking blew up at me._"

Alex raised an eyebrow.

"He said that I was incredibly selfish for not even considering the fact that perhaps he had _other_ shit to do, and that I should be ashamed of myself, but no! I wasn't! Because I was the fucking 'savior of the world' and so others should wait on _me_! He told me that I never even considered the fact that he actually had a job and I didn't—and I wanted to let him know that _no one _ would hire a mentally unstable man, but he kept on plowing through! He then told me that he had _never_ wanted to sleep with me in the first place, and the only reason he even did was because they didn't want to lose me to the Goddamn _crazies_! He told that he would never have been happier if he never saw my ugly face again after they were all done! He told me that he was _sick_ of having to take care of me and that I was nothing more than a nuisance! He told me to fuck off and leave him alone! So I did! For six days."

Alex was silent, but Desmond refused to let it end there.

"I slept, _on my own_, for six days, with night terrors and nightmares, and every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was _other_ lives, and all I could feel where people trying to hunt me down—_dead people _trying to _kill_ me. I couldn't function. He was my anchor. So I figured I needed to get out there. We had tried medications and shrinks, therapies and remedies, and _nothing _was helping_._ I was stuck in Renaissance Italy and Ancient Syria, for God's fucking sake. So I took the best next route: boot camp_._ I hoped the fatigue and the drill sergeants would bring me out of this—the Bleeding Effect! And you know what?"

Alex was still matching his gaze levelly.

"It did," Desmond hissed. "It fucking did. And those first few weeks were worse than Hell. I had to fight against myself and everyone and everything. I was trapped in a body that had three different men in it—three different lives from three different centuries. And now that I've beaten this shit myself, on my own, with only a few funny letters from _Rebecca_, I'm supposed to believe Shaun wants me back? That he's _actually_ sorry for all the shit he said? Now that I can actually say I live in the modern century? He didn't even try to find me. He didn't even write me a letter. No, he waited to apologize until I had done something with myself. Until I had managed to make it on my own. Until I got over my own urges just to kill myself with whatever was nearest. And I almost killed myself several times. They couldn't let me near the guns until the second month into boot camp. But thankfully, the drill sergeants took me as challenge and refused to give up on me until I broke. And I did. Thanks to the fact that the assassins' order paid off the drill sergeants not to give up on me so that they wouldn't have to deal with me. And now that I've done something with myself, they want me back. Everybody fucking wants me back. Now that I'm no longer _needing_ help, they suddenly want me back. You know what I say to that?"

Alex was frowning now.

"Fuck. You. It's my life now," Desmond snarled, plopping back down in the chair. "Hurry up your fucking examination so that Seth can come in and torture him some more. Maybe I'll starve him to death and then send his body back to the order. Fucking serves them fucking right."

He settled his head back in his arms, ignoring when Alex started talking to Shaun again.

_"Such is the way that life goes."_

He looked to see Altair beside him. "You just won't fucking go away, will you?"

Altair laughed quietly, kicking his chair back and resting his feet on the table. His robes fluttered around him. _"You prefer Ezio to me?"_

"Hell no. I don't want either of you here."

Altair hummed, and he watched as he tilted his head back, letting his hood fall off as he closed his eyes. He closed his own eyes, ignoring the sound of Alex getting Shaun something to drink. He was almost asleep when he heard the "sorry"s change into something else. It was quiet, almost not there, and he stiffened, his ears pulling it in whether he wanted it to or not. It was the lullaby that he had sung to calm him down after his night terrors. He sat up, glaring at Shaun. Ezio was behind the man, rubbing his shoulders and coaxing the words from him as he sobbed. Shaun was crying. Shaun was _crying willingly_. He snarled and rose, shoving his chair from behind him as he marched over to the man. It could hardly be called singing between the dry sobs and the hardly a whisper voice, and he scowled down at the man.

"He says it reminds him of the days before he ruined everything—"

He grabbed Shaun by the shirt, snarling as the man cried out in pain at the dig of the wire and the cloth against his burns. "Stop singing that song!"

Shaun cried harder, the words still tumbling out as Desmond dropped him, grabbing his head instead and snarling as he forced it back to look the man in the eyes. They were terrified, pained, and he could feel Shaun trying to shrink into himself, the words stuck in his mouth. Desmond was snarling as he held his head.

_"Keep singing, Shaun; it's the last refuge you have,"_ he heard Ezio murmur, and he looked up to see him standing there.

He growled and fisted his hands in Ezio's robes, shaking him. "You! Leave me the fuck alone! All you've done is cause me grief!"

Ezio simply smirked as Shaun started singing again, and Desmond pushed him away, grabbing Shaun's arm and digging his fingers into burn below, listening to the shriek of pain.

"Stop it," he growled.

Shaun finally stopped, and he grimaced when Ezio started singing. He couldn't hurt the assassin—hell, he wasn't really there. He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into the man's arm.

"Stop!" he screeched.

He let go and covered his ears, falling to his knees to curl in on himself. He didn't want the twisted, foggy memories of the Bleeding Effect. He didn't want the identity crisis he had narrowly escaped from. He didn't want to hear that song—that song that had so much comfort and meaning, that had lulled him to sleep after night terrors sank in. He didn't want to be reminded of the days that Shaun would still crawl in bed with him and comfort him. He didn't want to be reminded of what he was like _before_.

"Please," he whimpered, "stop."

But there was something in Ezio's voice—something that made him want to stop and listen, like a father's voice. It was comforting and stern, and he knew that he would be safe, but he had never had a father, and he wasn't going to have one now. He wanted Ezio to shut up. It was only the Italian (or Altair) who could actually make him freeze with just his voice. He was compelled to listen—even in the Animus. He couldn't stop the man from singing, and he didn't want the memories he had with that song. He had locked them all away: all the pain and confusion, all the moments of just _black_ when he was overtaken by someone else. He didn't want them back.

He felt a hand gently brace the side of his head, and he followed it as it pushed him forward to rest on something warm and soft and _real_. He felt another hand comb through his hair as Shaun started singing that fucking lullaby again. He just wanted to be left alone. His fingers curled into cloth, and he sobbed once as he felt like he was back in Shaun's house and helping him through another nightmare, stroking his hair with one hand and cupping his head with the other. He could hear Shaun singing softly in the background. He wanted him to shut up.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he was in his own bunk, again. The lights were out, and the night was dark, and fuck, it was colder at night. He got out of his bed, careful to avoid the others and General Cross, as he stumbled down the hall to Shaun's room. He didn't entirely know what was driving him to do this, changing course and stealing into the infirmary. He pinched the supplies without realizing it and tripped to the room with Shaun, pushing open the door and—fuck, it was colder in here than in the military base.

He rubbed his eyes as he turned on one set of lights. Shaun was a shivering mess. He set the supplies down, and before he knew what he was doing, he had the wire they had drilled through Shaun's arms pulled out, the staples removed with the glasses tucked away safely, and he was cleaning each wound meticulously, cutting off the cloth on his torso and gingerly cleaning the wounds and the burns. The man was watching him, only half there, and he heard the door creak open, but he was too busy with the bandage on the Blackwatch burn on the underside of his arm. He felt someone hold the arm up for him, and he thought he nodded in thanks.

_"Desmond?"_ It was Ezio, again. _"Desmond, I…"_

He looked up briefly to see his ancestor standing there, a soft smile on his face. He looked back down to concentrate on bandaging his arm. He worked silently, efficiently, and concentrated until the man was bandaged and cleaned, and he stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel probably from the infirmary, and Shaun was looking at him tiredly. He smiled softly, tilting his head and pouring a glass of water from some pitcher he didn't remember being there and probably took from the kitchens after he visited the infirmary and didn't realize it. He pulled up a chair and sat beside him, holding the glass of water to his lips and thinking how horrible Shaun looked as his hands, trembling and paler than what he remembered, lightly wrapped around the wrist holding the glass.

He helped him sip three full glasses of water slowly, eyeing the goose bumps all over his skin. Ezio was sitting on his opposite side, his hands clasped as he leaned on his knees, a proud smile on his lips. Once Shaun was done, he left him sitting there, and walked out of the base, his helmet on to avoid questions—the military couldn't question Blackwatch—and to a local restaurant. He purchased _something_ and returned to find Shaun and Ezio still sitting there.

_"You're back_."

"I brought you food," he murmured.

He helped him eat the entire meal, cutting each bite into smaller bites just to make sure he wouldn't throw up. By the time he was fed, tended to, and looking slightly better, it was in the wee hours of morning. He blinked at Shaun, who was staring absently at him as they sat there.

"I don't get it."

He nearly had a heart attack as he whipped his head around to see Alex emerge from the shadows of the room. Shaun didn't even twitch, so he must have known.

"I don't get it," he muttered again, pulling a chair up to sit beside him.

Desmond didn't respond, looking back toward Shaun. The poor man had taken to staring at his hand, and he held his hand out, only to have shaky fingers wrap around it lightly. He looked at the pale hand and squeezed gently.

"I thought you hated him."

He looked over at Alex. Then, he rose and gently picked up Shaun. It was freezing in here. Alex watched him as moved to walk away, rising and following him. He walked back into his room and set Shaun down as if he would snap in half. He tucked him in and lay down beside him, more concerned with how cold Shaun seemed. Perhaps he had been sorry. Perhaps he did want him back. He liked the idea of him still wanting him.

_"Perhaps it's just a projection of a madman's mind," _he heard Altair murmur.

He looked over his shoulder, past Alex, to see Altair standing there, a sick grin on his face as he held the lower part of Ezio's head and upper neck in one hand, the hidden blade sticking through the throat. He could see the blood dribbling down from the exit wound, and his dead eyes were wide and surprised. Altair dropped the body, wiping his blade off on his sleeve and smirking at him. Desmond rolled over to partly cover Shaun to share body heat. He felt Alex spread over the top of them, the virus's heat warming his friend quickly.

He couldn't care less, really: Ezio's death meant one less person to plague him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note at the bottom. :3 Warning: mild torture.**

* * *

><p>When he woke the next morning, he found Alex missing, but he could feel Shaun sleeping underneath him. As he sat up, tucking the blanket around his friend more, he saw Altair standing the doorway, frowning.<p>

"What?" he asked.

"_We must talk._"

He furrowed his brow. "About—"

He blinked in confusion, and Altair was gone. He turned his head to watch the fitfully sleeping man until he heard someone else stir. He looked to see Trevor wake, stretching and yawning, and he nodded to him.

"You're—what the hell did Alex do to you?"

"Huh?"

Trevor was on his feet, walking over and sitting at the foot of his bed, glancing only briefly at Shaun as if he weren't surprised to see him there. Trevor slammed his fist into the bunk above him, and he heard Kenneth curse fluently before stirring.

Trevor growled, "What the hell did he do to you?"

"I…"

He saw Kenneth's sleepy eyes peek over the edge, and suddenly they were awake, and the man scowled.

"Dude, what happened? Seth told us Alex pulled one over on you. What did he do?"

He rubbed his eyes, trying to remember last night. He could remember Shaun and helping him, and he could remember, vaguely, the infirmary. He could remember Ezio—

"He killed him," Desmond said, blinking rapidly and remembering the vision of Altair holding Ezio's body.

"He killed who?" Kenneth snarled, still hanging over the edge.

Desmond pointed to the area on the ground. "Altair. He killed Ezio."

The two Wisemen exchanged confused glances as he stood and walked over to the area, still seeing the blood on the floor from the injury.

"He killed Ezio. I can still see the blood. My ancestors? I'm crazy, remember?"

Kenneth frowned, and Trevor gave him a hard onceover.

"Altair killed Ezio. Ezio's the one who's been causing me so much trouble. He's dead. Here's the blood."

He nudged his foot against the dried blood on the floor. He knew the others couldn't see it.

"Desmond! You're awake!"

He looked to see Seth flip down from his bunk and pull him into a hug, making him think of those over-loving aunts who also like to pinch cheeks. He returned the hug cautiously, still kicking at the dried blood on the floor, and met Seth's gaze when he held him at arm's length.

"We need to talk."

He nodded as Michael stirred, falling out of the bunk and landing with a grunt on the floor. He watched a small fight ensue between the man and the bedcovers, and he bit his lip to hold back the chuckle that wanted to come out. Michael's head popped out of the blanket, looking around.

"Desmond!"

He found himself being pushed gently to the bed, and Trevor was locking the door to the bunkroom. He could feel nervousness building in the pit of his belly. Perhaps they no longer trusted him. Perhaps taking care of Shaun was the wrong move.

"_Never,_" Altair said, appearing next to him on the bed.

"Look," Kenneth said as he flipped out of the bunk to sit next to Altair, "we're worried about you."

Desmond was silent, watching them all cautiously.

"And we don't want you to get hurt," Trevor chimed in.

"But you can't trust Alex. At all," Michael added in.

"Not that we're saying we aren't glad he's getting along with at least one of us," Seth continued.

"But you need to remember we kidnapped his sister just a few days ago," Trevor said.

"_He is assassin-affiliated,_" Altair murmured, and Desmond turned to look at his ancestor. _"You must remember that Dana has always been his first concern. It was in his file. He is no better than I with Al Mualim. She says bark: he barks._"

"Desmond?"

He shushed them with a hand. "What do you mean?"

"_I am saying that there is a high chance he is working for the assassins through Dana."_

Desmond's eyes grew wide and licked his lips, trying to wet them. He could feel that nervousness clench his insides, twisting them into knots. He didn't want anything to do with his old order.

"Desmond? What's wrong?"

He looked back at Seth and opened his mouth to speak, but found the words locked in his throat. He could see Jarrod stir in his bunk, much repeating what Michael had gone through, and come over to join them.

"_There is no telling what he is doing. Be cautious, Desmond. You were an assassin once. 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' Understand these words. It matters not how he completes his mission, just that he completes it._"

Desmond balled his hand and pressed it to his lips, licking them again to try to keep them wet. Perhaps that's what he had been talking to Shaun about last night. Perhaps they were going to try to rescue Shaun. Perhaps he was here to end Shaun's life—or his. Perhaps he was sent to keep an eye on Desmond. Once the assassins' order wanted something, they often got it with patience and persistence.

"_Now you think correctly._"

He could feel Altair vanish beside him, and Kenneth was suddenly right next to him. He could feel Kenneth's arm around his shoulders, and he looked at the man. He opened his mouth to speak again, but found the words frozen in his throat. Right under his nose, the old order had taken advantage of him. They were using his craziness against him. Matt was stirring in the final bunk, and Desmond felt his eyes drawn toward the man who had originally brought him into the Wisemen.

"Don't let them do that to me," he whispered, alarmed he had overlooked such a detail.

"Don't let who do what, Desmond?" Matt said, having joined them over by his bunk.

He looked at Matt, beginning to panic. "Don't let the assassin order get a hold of me."

He was reassured by the warm chuckle that ran through his new family. He felt Kenneth's hand rub his arm briskly, and he could feel a worried smile tug at his lips.

"We promise we won't, Desmond. You're ours now," Seth said, placing a hand on his leg.

"And we don't let one another go," Jarrod said with a laugh. "We're all we have."

Desmond leaned into Kenneth's hold heavily, and he almost heaved a sigh of relief. It was great to feel wanted by someone, despite his problems, despite the residual Bleeding Effect, despite his mental breakdowns. He felt secure in the presence of the Wisemen. He watched Matt unlock the door, and he could feel the tension in the air grow as Alex stepped in with food. The man was frowning at all of them gathered around Desmond's bunk.

"I brought food for Shaun."

There was still silence as Alex padded over and Kenneth moved as if he had the plague when he went to sit on the bed. Shaun was making a mumbling noise, his eyes still closed, and when Alex went to wake him up, Desmond kicked his foot.

"Leave him be for now. He's actually sleeping."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"He's talking in his sleep. Probably a dream or something," Matt offhandedly commented. "Not that you'd know, freak."

"So why did you take him in?" Seth asked, raising an eyebrow at Desmond.

"I… don't really know. I don't actually remember much about last night."

"You had a breakdown," Alex said as he watched Shaun. "He started singing, and then he stopped. You kept screaming that someone was still singing, and then he started again, and you leaned against his legs and fell asleep."

Desmond blinked. "Yeah… I don't really know."

Seth nodded, pursing his lips. "Well, I'm kinda sad, but I can get over it. I'm not entirely surprised."

There was a comfortable, but tense, silence that settled over the group. Desmond didn't feel safe leaving Shaun by himself, knowing that Alex was simply using him to get to him. He wasn't going to give in. The minutes ticked by until the air was practically cracking with tension, and Shaun stirred, blinking.

"You're awake," Alex said, and Shaun gave him a blank look.

"Shaun?" Desmond muttered, and the man whimpered, dragging his eyes toward him.

He watched his arm move under the blanket, and he set his hand on top of it. The man made an odd sort of noise, closing his eyes again.

"I need to change his bandages," he murmured.

"He needs to eat," Alex said.

"We'll take good care of him," Seth said, his lips curling to show his teeth as he stared at Alex.

"That's what I'm afraid—"

"All right, you pussies," General Cross said, barging into the room. "We've got our next assignment."

They all looked at the man as he plopped down on a bunk, looking at a file. "You've gotta scram. Sorry, Mercer."

Alex sat there, watching, and General Cross scowled. "I said, 'Get the fuck out.'"

Alex snarled, but slowly exited the room, and Jarrod was up in an instant, outside and beeping as he changed the code to the door. After the man came back in, he sat back down, and they watched as the General looked them all over.

"It's a fun assignment, don't worry. We're cleaning up after the Marines overseas."

"Really?" Michael asked. "I thought they were just—"

"There's a couple of loose ends the president wants wrapped up. The military ain't gonna do it so they don't get a bad rep."

"As if they don't already have one," Kenneth muttered, and there was a quiet chuckle throughout the room.

"We've got a couple of targets to take down, a town to level, a couple of citizens to terrorize…"

Desmond grinned. He was going to look forward to it. He could feel the excitement in the room building. All of them were listening eagerly.

"Of course, all of Blackwatch will be there. Our main assignment is to track down the man who claims he has a vial of the Blacklight virus."

"How does he have it? We got any leads?" Trevor asked.

General Cross wore a smug smile. "We don't know anything but his name and face."

Desmond frowned. "Then how will we…"

Kenneth laughed once. "Desmond, we'll just go have some fun with the Arabs. 'Sides, they all look alike, so it doesn't matter if we 'accidentally' kill someone else."

"_I certainly don't look like the rest of them,"_ Altair said, appearing and spitting at Kenneth's feet.

Desmond bit his lip so that he wouldn't smile.

"It's what we're good at," Trevor said. "We get the mission done no matter what the cost."

General Cross leaned back, setting the file beside him and looking like a cat that got the cream. "I've got translators lined up—"

"I can speak Arabic," Desmond said.

"_I can. I can speak Arabic," _Altair hissed.

"And so can I," he snipped. "I learned from you."

Altair snarled, and Desmond curled his lip in response.

"Another fucking ancestor of yours?" General Cross asked. "How many of them do you fucking have living in that damn brain?"

"Just one, and he's the Arab," Desmond said, looking at the man.

He was leaning against the wall in his uniform. He was scowling. "And those hooded freaks were the ones who did this to you?"

He nodded. Altair was sitting behind him, on top of Shaun, leaning against his back and placing his chin on his shoulder. General Cross shook his head.

"If you were my kid, I'd have you hunting down every single one of those Goddamn bastards."

"Any of us would," Michael said.

"We're just an extension of you, after all," Jarrod said, earning a laugh from Seth.

"I'm not entirely sure I want to be an extension of him. I certainly don't want to age like _that_."

The General growled playfully and threw a pillow at him. "You aren't too fucking far behind me, smartass."

Seth scoffed. "Please. I'm at least a million years younger."

This earned a laugh from the rest of the group, and General Cross stood, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Just you watch yourself, shithead, or I'll pound you into the ground. I'm still a better fighter than you."

"Mm-hm," he hummed, rolling his eyes, and Desmond found himself grinning.

Beneath his hand, he could feel Shaun's fingers curl slightly, as if to hold his hand, and he chanced a glance at him. Surely he had a killer headache. Perhaps he could get him something to numb the pain. But then again, if he was in pain, he could tell if Alex tried to move him. Shaun shifted slightly, and he curled his fingers around his hand, earning a soft noise from him. The General padded over, peering back at him.

"You may want to change the room code so Mercer can't get to him. He'll probably kill him."

"I did. I was gonna tell them after you were done," Jarrod said.

Desmond shook his head. "He won't do that."

Cross raised an eyebrow, and Desmond looked up at him. "He's an assassin. His only goal is to get to me."

"You sure?"

"_Or to free Shaun."_

He looked back down at the sleeping man. "Or to free Shaun."

"_Dana makes him dance. She is his puppeteer._"

"Dana plays him like a puppet."

General Cross clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he met his gaze. "We won't let him get either of you, Miles. You're ours, now."

He couldn't help but feel right at home when the others agreed. As the day drug on, he changed out Shaun's bandages and fed him a meal, careful to enter only when Alex wasn't around. The man was in a lot of pain, and he couldn't help but feel a little remorse for what he had done. He wondered if Rebecca was still doing well.

And as days passed into weeks, he trained with the Wisemen as they prepared to be deployed, often holing up in the shooting range for hours at a time. It was much more different from being in boot camp, he was pleased to find out, as he joked and goofed around—despite all safety regulations. There was no rule the Wisemen _didn't_ break, apparently. In hand-to-hand combat, they were harder to fight than Lucy, years of knowledge and combat under their belts all ready, and he quickly picked up skills he didn't know existed. He taught them the art of assassination, training them to have the finesse his lineage was known for. He couldn't help but laugh at them as they tried what he tried to teach them as he fell back on his instincts pounded into him underground at Monteriggioni.

It was when General Cross would come out with them that things got extremely intense. It seemed that no amount of time away from the shooting range affected his abilities with guns and the shock baton, and Desmond had problems fighting with him, despite his assassin instincts. It seemed the General was just as eager as they were to go overseas. He was a skilled fighter, and much of his fighting style seemed to reflect in Desmond, and he often heard the other Wisemen complaining about how they seemed to know each other's moves and attacks, and how their fights were always longer before one of them (usually General Cross) got sick of it and went Super-Saiyan or something and whupped the other. That didn't go without saying that the General was proud of how well the newest recruit could fight.

Shaun was healing slowly, the fractured bones around the staple wounds giving him the worst time. He would lie listlessly in Desmond's bunk, his eyes closed and the covers over his head as if that would help. Desmond was gentle, always changing his bandages slowly, taking him to the bathroom twice a day, feeding him breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Although it wasn't only Desmond that watched over him: Shaun became something akin to the Wisemen's pet, and they would often joke about how they had to "take the dog out" or "feed the dog," and Desmond would grin and laugh with them. Sometimes, if they were playing card game in the barracks, Shaun would venture from the bed and sit next to him, and whoever was closest would pet his hair gently, cooing like one might do for an animal. They were careful to keep him hidden from Alex, never letting him out for long, watching the poor man shuffle about in a pained stupor.

When they found Alex had somehow lured him to open the door, Desmond was pissed. It was a coiling, biting rage that twisted in his belly and made it hard to see. He was going to pound Alex into the ground. He would wring his viral neck and sink him in the ocean with one-ton cement blocks. He wasn't going to let him take _his _Shaun from him. No matter what Dana told her brother to do: the assassins were _not_ getting him back. As soon at the other Wisemen got Alex out of the room, Desmond grabbed Shaun's chin.

"Don't you _dare_ let him in. Don't even _think_ about going with him. You are _mine_. You understand that?"

Shaun's eyes were wide with panic as they stood there, a blanket around the bandaged man's shoulders. He nodded, small, rapid bobs of his head.

"Are you _sure?_"

Shaun whimpered as he tightened his hold on his jaw. "Y-Yes."

Desmond snarled, letting him go. "Good. Don't _ever _forget you are mine and that _you_ came back to get _me._ I won't let you leave now."

He heard the door open again, and Seth stepped in. "Everything okay in here? Shaun still in one piece?"

Desmond frowned as he looked at his comrade. "Yeah, but I think we need to make sure he knows who owns him."

Seth's lips curled in an alluring way, as if he were pleased by what Desmond said.

"Is that so?"

Desmond growled as Shaun stepped closer and gently grabbed his sleeve. He wrapped an arm around the man's waist as he leaned against him.

"What were you thinking?"

He could see the sadistic _fire_ in Seth's eyes, the gears in his head turning with what were, undoubtedly, a million different torture techniques. That malevolent grin was spreading like a plague across his face, and it suited him, crazed and _lusting_ for blood.

"I don't know," Desmond said, frowning.

Seth exuded an aura of perverted glee, walking forward and laughing at Shaun's shiver and whimper. Desmond watched him cautiously. It wasn't as if he didn't trust Seth, but he was curious to know what was running through his mind as Shaun pressed against him, squeezing his eyes shut as Seth trailed a finger around his neck.

"There are _many_ possibilities."

"Keep it simple."

Seth laughed again. "Let's sew a collar to him."

"We can do that?"

"I can't—but Michael can."

And so he found himself holding Shaun still as Michael poked the thread through the collar, careful to go into the skin and through the inside of the collar. His stitches were perfect, and he used tweezers to pull the knots under the skin. Shaun was whimpering and jerking as Seth held his head and Desmond held his arms.

"He's a squirmy little shit," Michael breathed, pulling the needle through.

Shaun gagged, violently jerking at the feel of the needle passing beneath his skin. Desmond was glad he hadn't had anything to eat or drink in a while. If he didn't need to prove his point that he belonged to _him_, and not Alex, then he wouldn't have to do this at all.

"Come on, Michael, I know you can do this," Seth said, chuckling.

"All of my expertise is when people are dead. Like that one man you skinned—the one with all the tattoos. Whatever happened to that cloak I made?"

"It got burned in the infection."

"That was a good coat. I used my best goose down."

"I know. I'm still pissed."

Shaun choked when the needle passed through near the back of his neck, and Desmond shushed him, tightening his grip with one arm, and using the other to rub reassuringly over his thigh. The man whined, jerking at the feel of knot being pulled under the skin.

"Maybe I can make you a new one later."

"Eh, maybe. I never got to wear it much since it wasn't a part of the uniform."

"Maybe Christmas."

"That sounds good."

Desmond was silent, watching as Shaun struggled to get away, and it was only after he bopped him on the head that he stopped wiggling and let him finish. Once he was done, Michael stepped back, looking at the dark red collar. The gold tags glimmered in the light, proudly pronouncing that Shaun belonged to _Desmond Miles_ and the _Wisemen Team_. There would be no covering it up like a shirt did the scar on his ribs. This was for the whole world to see.

"Just keep that clean and sterile until it heals, and we should be good to go," Seth said.

Michael tisked. "That was not my best. I'm so sorry."

"He looks good. You can't see the stitches," Desmond murmured.

Michael laughed. "Sorry they aren't up to standard, kiddo."

Desmond shrugged. "I think I got my point across to him."

"And we know who he belongs to, now," Seth purred.

Shaun whimpered when he ran a finger over the new addition.

"I guess the only problem will be if we need to clean it," Michael said, frowning.

"Can't we just snip if off and redo it?"

"We could," Michael said.

"But that's an awful lot of work," Seth finished.

"And we'll have to keep that area cleaned, so it doesn't get infected," Michael murmured. "Keep an eye out for infection."

"It'd be too easy to have it go to shit," Desmond said with a sigh.

Michael shrugged. "I like it on him."

"It does look rather endearing," Seth agreed.

"I can take—"

"_We_ can take care of him," Michael corrected as Shaun clung to Desmond's side to hide from Seth.

Seth scoffed. "There's no 'I' in team."

Desmond wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out at him. "Yeah, well, there's no 'u' either."

Michael laughed at Seth's indignant yelp. "The newbie's got a point! On a different note, I'm hungry. Let's go have dinner."

"Do you want to come with, Shaun?"

"No."

Shaun curled his fingers tighter into Desmond combat suit. Desmond rubbed his arm lightly and pursed his lips.

"We'll bring you food," Michael said.

"Thanks. I'll be back in the barracks with him."

They nodded, and he led Shaun back to the bunks, having him sit on the bed. When he went to rub his throat, he caught his hand and gently pushed it back down to his side.

"Don't do that."

"B-But!"

Desmond chuckled. "I know, baby. But don't do that, okay?"

It was almost two hours later when Michael and Seth returned with food.

"What the hell happened?" Desmond asked as he took their offering. "Did you get lost or something?"

"We got distracted," Michael said, shrugging.

"You should know us by now," Seth added with a laugh. "And before we forget, General wants to see you."

"We'll feed Shaun. He's taking you out to eat. Wants to talk about something… disturbing?"

"Shocking?"

"Not really sure how to put it."

"Not necessarily bad. We promise."

Desmond's brows knitted together, and he frowned as he stood. Shaun whimpered and grabbed for his pant leg, but he caught his wrist and kissed it.

"I'll be back: I promise, Shaun."

"Don't go."

Kenneth came in, yawning mightily as he plopped on the bunk.

"It's only the beginning of evening, dude," Seth said, raising an eyebrow.

"So? I just ate. I want a nap."

"It's legit," Jarrod said as he came pacing in. "Oh, and General Cross told me to tell Desmond—"

"Bring your gun. I think he's taking you somewhere else to see what all you're capable of," Kenneth finished, laying back.

"Meet him out by the gates."

Desmond nodded slowly, grabbing his gun from under the bunk. With a gentle kiss to Shaun's cheek, he paced out to meet the General. He gave a half-assed salute to the General, who nodded in response as they walked out of the base into the streets. Desmond paced alongside him, quietly, as the man thought about whatever was bothering him. He adjusted his gun on his shoulder, and soon enough, he found them outside of the café from their first chase with Alex. He ordered quickly enough, and it wasn't until they were sitting outside, watching the streets with loads of people, that he found General Cross staring at him.

He swallowed thickly, that same feeling from the first time he saw the man in his office creeping slowly into his gut again. He shifted, looking down at the table and pulling his chair in. He set his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand before he sighed and crossed his arms on the table. He could _feel_ his intense stare, and Desmond felt like a little kid in front of his father. It was amazing how the General managed to do that.

"Calm down. You're not in trouble."

He snapped his gaze back to look at General Cross. "Uh…"

"You're acting like when I first met you."

He looked away, resting his chin in his hand again. "Sorry, sir. You're just so quiet."

"I actually have a question to ask you."

He looked at him through the side of his vision. "Yeah?"

"Who was your father down on the Farm?"

He blinked. That was an odd question. "Uh… I don't really remember. I was sixteen when I ran away, and I didn't have many pleasant memories, so I just tried to… forget them. My father included."

The General nodded slowly, leaning back in the chair. "Haven't you ever wanted to find out?"

"Not really… why are you asking me this, sir?"

"I was just curious. I stumbled across a few things when I was looking into the sperm donation.

"Really? Like what?"

"My kid was on your Farm."

"Cool. I probably don't remember him."

"I'm sure you do."

"What?"

"I know you know him."

"I do?"

"You do."

Desmond blinked. He wasn't quite following this conversation. "Wh… what was his name?"

"I have a picture. Do you want to see?"

Desmond nodded. This conversation certainly isn't making any sense. He watched him reach into one of the ammunition pouches around his waist and pull out a small, beautifully decorated, round picture frame. He looked into it and breathed on it, cleaning it off.

He was curious. If he did know the boy, he certainly couldn't put a pin on someone who looked like him. Of course, perhaps the picture would jog his memory. He hoped it did, so that way he could at least say he knew his kid. If he didn't, the General wouldn't be too happy. He seemed certain he knew him. He took the offered picture and turned it over. He blinked: General Cross must have grabbed the wrong thing.

"Look again, I grabbed the right thing."

And now he could read minds. Desmond looked back at the small mirror, his brow knitting in confusion. He held the mirror up, level with General Cross's face, looking from the mirror to the man beside it. Back, forth, back, forth. His skin had lost some of its rich tan since he had joined the Wisemen, and the facial structure did look similar. Their faces both had harsh lines from the effects of time (and the Animus), and they did have similar hair.

The General reached inside a different pouch and pulled out a piece of paper. He took it and set the mirror down, his eyes gazing at a bunch of matching lines and numbers. It was a DNA test, according to the top of the file. His eyes flickered up to meet the General's, who had an unreadable expression.

"Where'd you get my DNA?"

"From the medical ward, after I fought you in the sparing ring."

He looked back down to the papers. They matched almost exactly. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. It certainly didn't seem as if they were father-son, although some of the similarities made a bit more sense now. He set the papers aside when the waitress came out with their food. They thanked her, and Desmond looked back at him.

"Well?"

He shrugged. "I don't know what to think."

He saw the corners of General Cross's lips curl upward. He quirked an eyebrow, and the General chuckled. "Here I was worried you might have a different reaction."

"What?"

"Your reaction? That was pretty much how I reacted. Then I started wondering if you'd react differently."

He scoffed. "You shouldn't have. I'm your kid."

The General snorted. "Yeah, yeah."

"Old man."

He laughed at the dirty look the General sent him.

"So, does this mean I get to blame my problems on you?"

"Hell no. They came from your mother."

He raised an eyebrow, smiling playfully. "Naw, my mom was a cool woman. I couldn't have gotten them from her."

He growled, and Desmond broke into a full grin before stuffing several fries into his mouth.

"I thought you wouldn't have a response to that."

"Just remember I'm still your superior."

"Sure thing, daddy."

There was a pause, then the two of them started laughing. It seemed utterly ludicrous that he could be calling the General of the United States of America his _father_. After a few minutes, he looked at the man, who shook his head

"Eat your food."

"Sure thing, _papa._"

There was a pair of amused scoffs, and before he knew it, General Cross was paying for his meal, and they were walking in Central Park.

"That's all I wanted to fucking tell you," the General said, shrugging.

"Wait, then why did Kenneth tell me to bring my gun?"

"I have no fucking clue."

Desmond shook his head, and they walked along in silence for a little bit to head to head back to the base.

"It's Jarrod, sir!"

He looked at man's radio, listening as the General held it up to his mouth to speak.

"We've got an emergency, sir!"

"Spit it out, damnit!"

"Alex took Shaun! We got a reading on the tracking bug we put in the collar, and he's slowed substantially. They're heading toward Central Park!"

The two exchanged glances, and Desmond loaded his gun, flicking on his Eagle Vision.

"Roger that, Jarrod. We're on it."

He saw a flash of gold and blue, and he found himself running after it. The blue figure was significantly slower than the gold, and he quickly passed them, waiting beside one of the small bridges in Central Park, Driprock Arch or something, according to the plaque.

"Let me g-go!"

He stepped out, listening to his gun fire itself and the hiss of Shaun's kidnapper as he dropped the weapon.

"Let him go."

"D-Desmond?"

He blinked when he saw Rebecca holding onto her wrist. He snarled, and she stepped back, grunting when she accidentally tightened her hold on her wrist. He could see the blood dripping down. It had been a nice shot. Of course, he had been trained as a Marine. She gritted her teeth, and he saw Shaun move against the side of the arch, crouching down like a frightened child. When he saw her look at her gun, he shot her other hand, listening to her shout in pain and back up a step. He stepped forward.

"I thought you were smart enough to know not to return."

"Alex was charged with getting Shaun out of there. I have to take him back to the order while he keeps the military off our backs."

He matched every step back with a step forward. He could hear the crowds beginning to panic. She looked around for a chance to escape, and he paced over, his boots crunching in the path beneath them.

"Desmond, don't do this. Let Shaun go."

"Why? He came back for me. He's _mine._"

"No, he's his own person. Let me take him back—"

She screamed as he shot out her kneecap and watched her fall onto the pavement. The people were in full panic mode now, and it was feeding him. He _loved _it.

"I thought you were smart enough to _leave._"

"Desmond!"

He stepped over and kicked her back, despite her arms crossing in front of her, her wrists flopping uselessly. He planted his boot on her chest, watching her struggle in vain. He snorted in amusement when she tried to use her leg to free herself, and without thinking, shot her in the shoulder, laughing at her cry of pain. He could see the blood spread on the pavement and hear the people around screaming.

He clucked his tongue. "You shouldn't have returned, Rebecca."

She screamed when he dug the toe of his boot into her shoulder wound.

"I warned you."

He chuckled at the chaos around him, looking up to see the police standing a few feet away, looking absolutely infuriated. He sent them a smug look. Rebecca was writhing beneath his boot, and he was fascinated by the dark red spreading on the concrete. The panic in the air filled him with a sense of sadistic _lust_, and he grinned malevolently at the woman beneath his boot. Manic laughter bubbled passed his lips as he licked his lips and aimed. With a single shot, he watched the blood spatter onto to the pavement, and it smelled absolutely _wonderful._ He saw Altair squat beside her with that horrid grin on his face, looking at him proudly. Desmond kicked the body to make sure it was dead.

He turned when Shaun came shuffling over cautiously, and he held out a hand. "Come here, Shaun. I won't hurt you."

Shaun slowly took his hand, and Desmond pulled him close as he saw General Cross step through the panicking crowds to look at the body.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," Shaun murmured, "I'm sorry."

He saw the General nod at his kill, his lips curling upward, and when he met the man's gaze, he saw a perfect reflection of himself in a couple decades.

Oh, yes, the Wisemen Team was his family—figuratively _and_ biologically. He knew that he belonged. He knew that he was _finally_ free.

* * *

><p><strong>OKIE-DOKIE. Wanted to let you all know that I am working on a sequel to <em>Volacious<em>, but I don't know if it will get posted in time. That's all I have left, really, is that sequel. I'm going on a brain break before NaNoWriMo, and I actually plan on finishing this year. Anyway, I will be out of commission for the most part.**


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